


The murder of Prime Minister Jon Arryn

by Maracuya



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - 19th Century, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Autopsies, Detectives, F/M, Family Dynamics, Past Relationship(s), Private Investigators, Secret Relationship, Steampunk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-10
Updated: 2016-11-18
Packaged: 2018-02-16 21:11:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 43
Words: 46,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2284599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maracuya/pseuds/Maracuya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The king's Hand, Prime Minister Jon Arryn, is dead. Private detective Sansa Holmes and her sister Arya Watson are engaged to investigate the case - and while doing so they're confronted with their own past as well. Moreover, they find out that the question whether Lord Arryn was murdered is not the most difficult one to answer... in comparison to what fate still has in store for them. Mostly Arya POV (apart from the two introductory chapters).</p><p>A few drawings included.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Morning in King's Landing, Red Keep

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KylaBosch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KylaBosch/gifts).



> I've rated it "M", but perhaps it's more between "T" and "M"; there are the autopsies and some references to sexual content, so I wanted to be on the safe side. Please note that I've never written a detective story before, so this is kind of a learning-by-doing project for me. The terms "Hand" and "Prime Minister" are interchangeable. There are some relationships in the story, but the focus is on the overall dynamics between people.
> 
> A huge "thank you" to KylaBosch, who has already given me much support and has provided helpful thoughts. I guess I would have never started this story without her. :-)
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own my works of fanfiction/fanart. I do not profit from the stories or drawings, nor would I  
> ever seek to do so. All credit for characters, plot and settings go to the respective original author or artist.

Petyr Moriarty rubbed his hands in glee and applied some mint oil from a bottle-green, diamond-shaped phial after he had shaven his cheeks and had trimmed his goatee. The air tube system had just delivered a message from Lady Lysa Arryn. The two of them had been conferring for a long time. Humming, he placed the latest letter into volume one of a rare edition of “The Ryse of the Westerosye Prynting Presse”. It was where he had already placed a few earlier missives from Lady Lysa.

 

Lysa Tully had been his lover a long time ago, once, he had taken her maidenhood and she had conceived. Her father had not accepted him (and he had not loved Lysa anyway, had mistaken her for her much sweeter sister, because he had been ill and confused) and Hoster Tully, being an influential member in the House of Lords, had forced him to live in the Glen henceforth, under the rule of Lord Arryn. Lysa had had to undergo an abortion, to marry said old Lord Arryn and to live with him in King's Landing, because at that time, the man had already risen to the post of Prime Minister. Lysa had had various miscarriages until she had given birth to a sickly, backward boy (Robert), who was suffering from the falling sickness, and whom she adored and pampered to a degree that bordered on madness. It fitted into the puzzle that Lysa had become a nervous wreck and that she thought she was being persecuted by shadowy enemies, smelling rats where there were none.

The relationship between Lysa and Lord Arryn wasn't a loving one. Not even a friendly one. In fact, Lysa despised her old husband.

And while she trusted no-one she still had faith in him, Petyr. Over the years, she had helped him to rise on the social ladder by sending many automaton message birds to the right people, so in the end he could move to the capital. Finally, he had become the king's unofficial financial advisor. Which was all good and fine – but he wanted more. He wanted absolute power.

 

The problem was that he didn't come from a rich family, he wasn't physically strong, nor was he highborn. He was extremely intelligent, though. It was his greatest asset. Only... it would never be good enough to make him king.

As a consequence, he had used his wits. He had to develop an idea that would allow him to become the ruler of a country. First, he had cooked up a new political concept, which he named “Electocracya”. The basic idea was that the Seven United Kingdoms shouldn't be reigned by a king. Instead, the people should be able to choose the fittest aspirant as their sovereign in recurring elections. Of course, the candidates had to prove that they were very well-educated – which would exclude the narrow-minded rabble from the post, but which would enable the same narrow-minded rabble to vote... and he, Petyr, would be able to influence the people without any problems – in contrast to his likely conservative adversaries. And once he was in power... he could do away with his own system again, or reform it in such a way that he'd always stay in power.

Petyr Moriarty had already started to infect the ignorant, poor, frustrated people from King's Landing's slum, Flea Bottom, via his minions – and his concept was spreading like a grassroot fire. Now, the monarchy had to be shaken so that the realm would finally fall into his hands like a ripe fruit.

 

This was where Lysa Arryn came into the game again. Petyr Moriarty had nurtured her aversion against her husband in secret and had given her the feeling that she was still attractive and desirable (though she had lost all youthful sweetness... and of late she rather resembled, in fact, a mealworm). Of course, he'd have to pay the price and to marry and to fuck her, which wasn't an enjoyable prospect, but Petyr was sure that there'd be a chance to get rid of her (and the brat of her retarded son) sooner or later.

Anyway, the two of them had hatched a plan to murder Jon Arryn. Poison. It only had to be the right one, something that couldn't be seen and smelled and tasted and detected afterwards. Something... unobtrusive. In short: the essence of Lys. A drop into the lord's lunch every day, and the man would fall ill and wither – not at once, without raising any suspicion, but soon enough. And if anyone asked to start the wrong questions... he'd be prepared to lay the blame on the noble Lannister family. Queen Cersei hated her husband, King Robert. If her family fell... the monarchy would fall as well. Thus, an inquisitive character would even suit his case!

Petyr Moriarty smiled and stroked his goatee.


	2. Morning in King's Landing, Red Keep

Lady Lysa looked out of the window. Her face was stern. Little Sweetrobin had had to be given laudanum again, after he had had another severe fit. Soon, she hoped, things would become better, and they'd be back in the Glen. Lysa didn't particularly like New Eaglestone, her husband's ancestral seat, as she had no fond memories of the place; but in the future, things would improve there. The fresh air would be good for her son, and they'd be safe. What was more – once she was a widow she only had to wait a little more, and then, she'd be able to marry her beloved Petyr.

Lysa sighed. Yes, things would develop in the right direction, and soon, she'd be free from her disgusting, old, smelly husband. Petyr, in contrast, was young and cultivated, and perhaps they could still have a child together. Lysa wasn't too old yet. True, the maesters had informed her she wouldn't have a baby any more, but Petyr had already told her that Pycelle and the others were only lying the blame on her where in truth Arryn's seed was too weak for strong, healthy offspring; unfair as it was, however, it was always the woman who was supposed to pay the price for the husband's shortcomings. Ah, but Petyr understood her, and at least he didn't look at her as if she were a mare for breeding, unlike all the other men.

With a sure hand Lysa arranged her husband's breakfast on a silver tray. With a quick, stealthy movement, she produced a little phial from a brown leather purse and opened it to pour a tiny part of its content into Robert Arryn's porridge. The droplet sparkled in the morning light when it made its way down from the phial into the bowl.

 

Next, Lady Lysa smoothed down her skirts and rang a bell. A few moments later, a young man entered the room. His name was Hugh, and he came from the Glen. Over the past months, Lysa had increased her friendliness for the man considerably and had given him the impression that she was doing everything to promote him. The youngster was proud and simple-minded enough to trust her fully, which was convenient for her. This Hugh was all power, male confidence and youthful hormones, but not much brains – just the way she needed him to be.

“My lady?” he asked with a bright smile.

“Hugh, it is so good and uplifting to see your friendly face this morning. You may have heard that my sweet son is feeling unwell, which is very depressing. To see your warm smile is a great consolation for me.”

The great grandfather clock behind them struck the ninth hour.

Hugh's grin widened, he stood straighter and seemed to grow an inch or two.

“I'm happy to be able to cheer you up, Lady Lysa. What can I do for you?”

“Please, would you be so kind as to take this tray with my husband's breakfast to Lord Arryn's solar? I'm sure he'll be grateful for you doing him this favour. Oh, and there's something else I'd like to ask of you. Little Sweetrobin has often been weak of late, and I feel that the capital's stench isn't good for him. All these aether emissions, bah, they can't be good for him. I'll talk to my husband, because I think that our son needs a holiday in the Glen to recover. Please arrange a few things so that my son and me and my personal household can travel to the Glen swiftly – but be discreet, please. The court doesn't need to know even more details about my son's affliction. I'm sure Lord Arryn doesn't want the courtiers to know any more about this either.”

Hugh clicked his heels together. His demeanour was as fervent as always.

“It shall be done, my lady. You can count on me.”

Lysa took the man's hand and pressed it, grateful, by the look of it, although she couldn't care less about his personal feelings.

The man went on: “By the way, my lady, how would you like to travel? By railway or by express dragon?”

“Me and my son by express dragon, of course. Little Sweetrobin shouldn't be bothered with long, tedious voyages. My maids can follow us via railway. Make sure that you know the connections and railway timetables. Here, Hugh, take this gold dragon for your efforts. What would I ever do without you?”

The lad looked at the coin and then beamed at her.

Lady Lysa smiled, pretending to be benevolent.

Surely, Hugh would spend the money in one of Petyr's establishments, and in this way the investment wouldn't be lost for her cause. Little as Lysa liked the sources of Moriarty's income she could understand that her beloved needed to make enough money to get into a socially acceptable position to be able to marry her. Besides, he was only interested in the profit, not in the women who worked for him; thus, she had more or less made her peace with the situation and turned a blind eye on it.

While Hugh was grabbing the platter and walking out of the room she looked after him and thought that for him having some fun was likely the best thing he could spend the money for... before his impending necessary demise.


	3. One week later, morning in Oldtown, 221b Direwolf Street

The constant fiddling from next door was going on her nerves. Arya Watson was pacing up and down the living room with the ornate oaken book shelves on the walls and the cupboard in the same style; she circled the reception table, the rocking chair, trod down the soft, dark green carpet, looked out of the window with the grey, velvety curtains, stared at the cold fire place and finally at the one white element in the room: the heavy, big weirwood desk. Book piles, letters and manuscripts were heaped onto it, and Arya knew she wasn't allowed to move a single item for as much as a single inch.

She snorted, rolled up her eyes and waited for the music to end. Since patience wasn't a strength of hers and since she wasn't particularly fond of music the task proved to be rather difficult. Arya knew, however, that her sister – Sansa Holmes – was in one of her moods again and needed to clear up her mind. Playing the violin was her preferred method to do so.

This morning seemed to be particularly bad: Arya had spotted her sister in the bedroom, dressed only in a short house gown, not having eaten breakfast and completely immersed into the world of her tunes.  
As a child, Arya would have teased her elder sister endlessly for her whims, but they had both been through a lot, and they had both learned to accept each other's ways of tackling their inner demons.  
Arya sighed and walked over to the window to look out once more. If there was nothing else she could do at least she wanted to see what was going on in the street.

It was a busy neighbourhood, though not too crowded. There were some shops, a café as well, but also many normal flats for the residents, and it was only a few minutes' walk to various guildhalls. A boy was shoving a cart with cockles and mussels northwards over the cobbled ground and was advertising his offers in a loud voice. Arya's heart beat faster; she remembered the time when she had had the same job in a different town, far away in Braavos, and under most dire circumstances. She was happy that her life had improved since, and that she had found her long-lost sister again – and not only her.

She had come across another old childhood friend after her arrival in Oldtown: Gendry Watson. Since they had last met he had started to work for the Westerosi Railway Foundation – first, he had been shovelling coals, and now, he had risen to the position of a locomotive driver. Arya herself had enrolled at the Citadel for medical studies as one of the first women ever; three months before, she had got her degree, and she and Gendry had married – though not in the famous Starry Sept, but in a minor ecclesiastic building.

 

While Arya had never wanted a husband as a child she was content now to have found a companion. Ironic as life often was things were the complete opposite for Sansa. Her sister had always wanted to marry and to found a family when she had been a girl. True enough, a wedding she had had – but it had all turned out to be a complete disaster, and when no children had come there had been a quiet divorce. As far as Arya knew, Sansa's former husband had granted her a generous annuity for life so that Sansa could lead an independent way of life.

And yet, monetary safety could not conceal that Sansa had experienced many bad things. Gone was the romantic, air-headed girl Arya had known – and loathed, to be honest – in the past. Her sister had become... remote, to put it like that. What was more, her analytical abilities had grown in a way that made Arya feel uneasy at times. When they had been children Sansa had been bad at doing sums, or at thinking in logical terms at all. Now, she was the complete opposite, always observant, always analysing the surroundings. Arya had to admit that she had never thought Sansa to be a clever one, but her sibling had developed her intelligence in a most astonishing way – while her heart had turned to... well, perhaps not stone, but at least to wood.

After the divorce, her sister had also discovered a strange hobby: she had become a private detective, and over the last two years, she had made herself quite a name, having already solved more than one complicated criminal case. It was something one could be proud of – and Arya suspected that that was exactly why Sansa was doing this: she felt the urgent need to prove her capability. It was a trait that had survived from the past, only now, she wasn't showing off her needlework any more, but her intelligence.

Arya sighed and wondered what their parents would have thought of them, had they been able to see them as grown-ups.

 

However, her musings were cut short when fromone moment to the next, there was the wild, fast clopping of hooves to be heard down in the street. A moment later, an opulent carriage turned the corner and came to a sudden halt in front of the house, right behind a metallic steam vehicle.

A skinny servant with a dark cloak and a top hat hastened to open the carriage door. A little stepladder was let down. One heartbeat later, a tall, elegantly-clad, bald elderly man with golden-grey side whiskers emerged from the carriage. He looked as splendid as serious and intimidating – and, all in all, utterly dangerous.

Arya's eyes grew wide in shocked recognition: this was Lord Lannister, the richest man in Westeros, the leading Tory in the House of Lords and moreover...

“Sansa!” Arya called in the direction of the sleeping room and to where the music was coming from. “Sansa, better stop fiddling and put on a decent dress. Your father-in-law is here. Well, your EX-father-in-law, I should rather say.”

 

No two minutes later, Lord Tywin strutted into the room. He shot her a dark look and didn't waste his time.

In his curt way, he intoned: “Not at Harrenhal this time, as I can see. Where's Lady Sansa?”

“And a very good morning to you, too, Lord Lannister,” Arya replied in a saccharine voice.

Lord Tywin's eyes bore into her as if they were a deep driller.

Not feeling the necessity to even respond to her comment, he repeated his question: “Where. Is. Lady. Sansa?”

“I'm here, Lord Lannister. Please be so kind as to wait another minute; I'm just putting on a more representable dress,” Sansa's voice resounded from the bedroom.

The already prim man turned as stiff as a poker now.

He spoke up: “Lady Sansa, I'm here in a matter of utmost importance for the realm. There is no time to waste.”

Mere seconds later, the bedroom door opened and Sansa stepped into the living room. She was wearing a marine dress that looked like a uniform, suitable for an official appointment. A little blue velvety top hat had been fastened in her auburn hair, thus adding to the effect. How she had been able to put on these clothes so swiftly was a mystery to Arya, but then again, Sansa was an expert at dressing and undressing, even with regard to elaborate disguises, as she had proven over the past two years. Arya, who didn't care much about clothes, still had to admit that her sister looked perfect in this situation.

Sansa stepped up to her former father-in-law, looked him straight in the eyes and held out her hand in a most graceful way for the reception of a greeting kiss. Arya was dumbfounded – there was barely anyone in the realm who dared to face the Lion of Lannister as if he or she were on a more or less equal level. It was obvious that her sister had developed some guts in the past.

To her immense surprise, Lord Tywin actually did give Sansa a tiny peck on the hand.

“Please take a seat, Lord Lannister. Pressing as your issues may be it would be more comfortable to talk about them in at the reception table.”

“I've just arrived here in Oldtown after a three hours' flight by express dragon, Lady Sansa, and I've been sitting all the time. I prefer to stand now, but you can sit down, of course.”

“Standing” didn't nearly cover it, Arya had to find out at once. The Old Lion was so stressed that he immediately started to pace up and down, much like she herself had done a few minutes before. While he was walking to and fro, he had his hands clasped on his back.

“Lady Arya, you will leave us now. I need your sister's particular investigative skills,” Lord Tywin informed her.

Sansa, however, turned out not to share the man's opinion: “Lady Arya is not only my beloved sister – she is also my backbone in many ways when it comes to my work as a detective. Moreover, she is loyal and fierce and knows how to keep a secret. We do share our knowledge, or we don't gather any knowledge at all.”

Arya held her breath then for two reasons: on the one hand, it sent warm shivers up and down her spine to hear Sansa talk about her in such a positive way; on the other hand, she was unsure of how the Old Lion would react to this dictation of the rules for their interaction. Nobody told him how to proceed without paying a price.

Lord Tywin looked at Sansa and stated curtly: “I was a moron to allow this divorce. For various reasons.”

He looked around for a moment as if Sansa were residing in a dung heap – and from an arrogant and most noble Lannister's point of view this was probably true. Arya knew that her sister could have lived in a mansion extra provided for her, and the fact that she preferred these lodgings was a degradation and a slap in the face for Lord Tywin. People shouldn't think the Lannisters didn't pay their debts any more. The fact that Sansa would have needed some other kind of compensation rather than money was lost on the cold-hearted man, of course.

Sansa retorted in a polite, but icy tone: “The divorce was the only reasonable thing to do for Tyrion and me – we've become friends of sorts, which wouldn't have been possible otherwise. But I was under the impression that this meeting isn't about old family affairs.”

Lord Lannister huffed: “I hope it isn't. The fact that I can't be sure is one of the reasons why I'm engaging you for this case, instead of one of the Bow Street Gold Cloaks from the capital. You see – Lord Arryn is dead. He died around the hour of the wolf, and King Robert has named me his new Hand. The problematic point is now that I'm under the impression that even though Lord Arryn has been ill for a week this illness might not have had a natural cause. So I want to have some discreet investigations. Little as I may like it: I need you for the task. You'll have to come along to the capital at once. Pack a few belongings. Only the most necessary things, I should add. I've got another express dragon reserved for an immediate return flight. Balerion class, big enough so that even your sister can come along, if necessary. You'll be housed in the Lannister mansion for the time being.”

That startled Arya, and she cut in: “But I've got to inform my husband!”

Her exclamation earned her a snide look.

“The ragged little wolf has found a master who put her on a lash?”

“This has nothing to do with a lash, but with respect.”

Lord Tywin shot her another look and off-handed he suggested: “Send him an automaton bird then. This is a task about the realm's safety. If your husband is worth a trifle he'll understand.”

Next, he turned to Sansa again: “I'll await you down in my carriage in maximal ten minutes.”

After those words, he didn't wait for any more reactions, and without further ado, he strode out of the room.

 


	4. Same morning in Oldtown, about 40 minutes later, dragon airport

The mere sight made Arya ill; she would have liked to go back to Mrs. Hudson in Direwolf Street and would have preferred even more to return home to Gendry – only her husband was on duty anyway and would have laughed at her for being such a chicken, because usually it was her who was the bold and the adventurous one.

The problem was that Arya had never flown on a dragon before, and while she had gotten accustomed to being aboard sailing and steam ships she wasn't comfortable about taking to the air. The animals on the runways looked impressive and dangerous, as it could be expected – most of all the big black one from the Balerion class. There were a green and a white animal to be seen as well, and they were just in the process of taking a sandbath and of being fed huge amounts of meat. The black monster, however, had already been prepared for the flight: it was wearing its navigation gear on its head and had a glassy passenger cabin for five people on its back, and behind the booth for the travellers there were three aether turbines to speed up the flight even more. In this way, the distance between Oldtown and King's Landing could be covered in three hours, while the normal trains with their steam locomotives would need about twelve hours.

“No wonder that travelling by dragon is so ridiculously expensive that only the richest people in Westeros can afford it. And the Old Lion is one such person, of course.”

Arya knew well enough just how wealthy Lord Tywin was. His ancestors had found out that dragons produced aether, and they had started to breed a new, tiny kind of dragon lizards, whose aether could be harvested, stored and used for engines of all sorts. After having gotten a patent, business had grown, and nowadays, everywhere in the Lannister's western Waleslands there were huge dragon lizard farms with countless cages for just as many animals. As a monopolist for the worldwide aether production the Lord of Lannister was probably the single richest man on earth now, and an exclusive dragon ride was an everyday occurrence for him.

Arya sighed. It still irked her that she owed it to Lord Tywin's influence that she had been admitted to the Citadel for her medical studies. Without his support she as a woman wouldn't have had a chance. At the same time, she knew that he had only thought he had been paying an old debt at that time, and perhaps it was true in a way.

 

“Targaryen Dragon Airlines. Welcome to our flight from Oldtown to King's Landing. Please follow me. You can leave your hand baggage here; my assistant will store it in a box for you. I am your today's dragon captain Daenaerys Targaryen.”

The female voice interrupted Arya's musings, and she looked up. There was a beautiful, silver-haired woman wearing a leather cap and aircraft goggles on the gangway to the black dragon. Arya was dumbfounded: this was the owner of the airline herself! She had heard that Daenaerys Targaryen still participated in the flying activities personally from time to time, but Arya had not expected to see her in the flesh under these circumstances.

Though she was hesitant she followed the elegant woman. Sansa was directly behind her. Her sister was composed and silent, but Arya was pretty sure that on the inside things were quite different. As far as she knew Sansa had never flown before either.

About ten minutes later, they were sitting in fireproof seats that could withstand a dragon's natural heat without any problems, and they had been asked to fasten some belts around their middle for safety. A moment later, the big monster started to jog down the runway to take up speed, and then, the dragon hauled itself into the air. Arya uttered stifled yelp and felt queasy at once, whereas Sansa simply pressed her lips together.

Lord Tywin shot them a side glance and stated curtly: “This was a normal start. Nothing to be worried about.”

Next, he produced a leather-bound journal and started to read.

Below, the houses became smaller and smaller, and fields and rivers looked like nothing more than little patches and blue seams from this point of view.

After a while, Arya tried to divert herself and Sansa a little and asked: “Have you heard of the new wax museum that has been opened in King's Landing? I've read an article about it in the Westerosi Herald. There are many wax statues of famous contemporaries there, and there's also a medical cabinet with human models with different health problems. I'd love to see those, if there should be any leisure time. What do you think?”

Lord Tywin looked up for a moment and scoffed: “Another distraction for the rabble, nothing more. My statue has been reported to actually smile. Will you believe that?”

Sansa simply shrugged and said: “You can do as you please, Arya. I only want to finish the investigations I've been asked to carry out and to return home afterwards.”

Next, she fell silent and looked out of the windows.

Arya rolled up her eyes and wished for Gendry to be with her. At least, she had managed to send him a message before her departure. Luckily, he had been scheduled for the railway route to King's Landing anyway, so they might meet twice during the upcoming week. She hoped the investigations wouldn't take so long, but with Sansa you never knew.

 

The last two years had shown that her sister chose her own rhythm when it came to solving a case. Two or three times, she had sent someone away after nothing more than an initial talk. On other occasions, she had been away for weeks.

One only had to think of their first major joint mission after their happy reunion, when they had solved the mystery about the Harrenhal Ghost. It had been right after Sansa's divorce, and Lord Tywin had accidentally stayed at the castle because of a political conference at the same time. In contrast to those days the atmosphere now was nearly a relaxed one. As relaxed as it could ever get with the Old Lion, that was.

 

Arya also recalled the difficult and abominable case of a certain Jack the Ripper, who had killed various whores in the Street of Silk back in the capital a few months later. One of the victims had been Tyrion Lannister's favourite harlot, and the Imp had had the impudence to ask his former wife for help. While Arya would have told him he could go to all seven hells Sansa had not been affected by this surreal situation and had offered her advice without thinking twice. In the end, it had turned out that young Crown Prince Joffrey Baratheon had been the one who had murdered the whores. This explosive result could have undone the royal family, so the whole affair had been dealt with discretely: allegedly, the prince had caught a disease, had been removed from court and had been locked up in a sanatorium on the Island of Skagos, where he had been forbidden to receive any guests. After a few weeks, his health had deteriorated, and he had died, leaving his brother Tommen as the new crown prince.

And ever since Sansa and Tyrion had been good friends.

“Now that we don't have to produce an heir things are much easier between us, believe it or not,” Sansa had declared with a smile. “I've come to appreciate his wit and his intelligence to some extent, which was utterly impossible before.”

Anyway, it was likely this case of Jack the Ripper where Sansa had proved her secretiveness that had caused the Lord of Lannister to come back to her in the affair about dead Prime Minister Arryn. Arya wondered which things her sister would uncover in the weeks to come.

She looked out of the window and realised they were already nearing the capital. A bit later, they were circling above the city centre; the Westerosi Parliament had its own little dragon airport next to the ancient dragon pit. Arya looked further ahead and could see Blackwater Bay, the front of the Parliament and Big Benjen, which was just striking the full hour with its loud, typical melody.

After a few heartbeats, however, this scenery vanished from sight again: the dragon was about to land. Would everything go well?

“Valar morgulis,” Arya whispered.

A minute later, the dragon was trotting down the runway and finally coming to a halt.

Relieved, Arya breathed deeply, smiled and murmured under her breath: “Not today.”


	5. Lunchtime, same day, King's Landing, dragon airport, ten minutes later

They had been allowed to get off the dragon soon enough, and Sansa was clutching her hand baggage to her body. While Arya had basically no other things than her doctor's bag with her, as she had had no opportunity to go home and to pack anything, the items Sansa had chosen were... peculiar, to say the least: her violin, their late father's old white weirwood pipe and his deerstalker cap. Lord Eddard Holmes had often used the pipe and worn the cap when he had been contemplating under the Heart Tree at their family estate. The last object in Sansa's bag was a rag of a bedraggled white coat whose origin was unknown to Arya. Well, her sister had developed lots of weird quirks, and yet Arya was more fond of her now than in their childhood.

Together, they walked down the gangway and – polite as she was – Sansa thanked Daenaerys Targaryen for the safe flight. Next, they crossed the small, exclusive airport building, which was decorated lavishly with moulding, beatgold and marble, and finally, they hastened to the drive with the coaches. Some of the carriages ran on aether, but as a conservative man Lord Tywin insisted on a means of transport pulled by horses; well, at least it had some modern aether lamps. The vehicle itself was as impressive in its Lannister colours as one could possibly expect and shone out from the other more average ones in black or brown.

 

From one moment to the next, Sansa froze right in front of her, so that Arya couldn't stop in time and ran into her.

“Damnit! Sansa, what is it...”

Arya trailed off.

Her sister stood there with wide eyes, staring ahead at the carriage, and her breathing had changed markedly.

“Ah, yes, Lady Sansa,” Lord Lannister interjected, “I guess you remember my coachman. He'll pack your things into the trunk behind the passengers' cabin. Right, let me lead you to your seat now.”

In the meantime, the coachman in his dark, weatherproof cloak had tipped his yellow-rimmed black top hat in his typical, grumpy way.

“Ma'am. Miss.”

“Mrs. Watson,” Arya corrected him and received a non-committal grunt in return.

Next, the man climbed off the coach box and stowed the luggage in the indicated trunk while the trio entered the carriage.

When they had started trotting down the cobbled streets – they'd go to Buckingham Keep first to examine the dead prime minister, who was laid out there for the time being – Sansa suddenly addressed the Old Lion: “He's still working for you?”

Lord Tywin understood the context at once and answered: “Yes. Coarse and too fond of red wine at times, but also very effective. What was that case called again when you retrieved him for our house?”

“You mean YOUR house; I'm back to my maiden name, as you well know. People called the case “The Mystery of the Baskerville Hound”.”

Lord Lannister nodded.

“I remember now. Anyway. Let's switch to our recent case. We'll arrive at Buckingham Keep in a few minutes. We'll head for the Wing of the Hand. This is where the body has been deposited. Perhaps it's not bad after all that your little sister has come along. Can you carry out an autopsy... Mrs. Watson?”

Arya snorted and held the Lord's gaze: “Of course I can. It would be easier in a hospital, but I've got my doctor's bag with me.”

The Lord of Lannister shook his head.

“Discretion. No hospital. By the way: I should add that your aunt, Lady Arryn, is mentally unstable. I've been wondering, if her sickly boy wouldn't be cared for better in a children's home befitting his social position. But that is something that can be discussed later. On a different note, Lady Arya... this Mr. Watson... I gather he's a nobody and poor besides?”

Arya smiled.

“From your point of view – yes.”

“You could have had it differently.”

“I HAD it differently for about seven weeks, counting it all together. Almost two years ago. You will remember, since your memory is as sharp as ever. But I've made my choice, and it was the right one. I'm happy.”  
“If you say so,” Lord Tywin grumbled and looked out of the carriage window. “We're there. Follow me.”


	6. Tea time, same day, King's Landing, Buckingham Keep, Wing of the Hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A piece of information: the Prime Minister/Hand has got rooms/a solar in Buckingham Keep in this story, while his minstry is at - - the Tower (of the Hand), of course. ;-)

Arya was cleaning her arms and hands after she had done her duty. Sansa had been at her side all the time and had even assisted her with the autopsy, as other help wasn't available for the task in order to keep the process as much of a secret as possible.

Ever since her elder sister had walked into the room with the horribly mutilated dead whores in the Jack-the-Ripper case and had just announced: “I've seen my father's corpse. And not only his. It would take a lot more to shock me these days.” Arya had known how hard Sansa had become.

In this case it was a great advantage, to be sure. Her help had been competent enough for a half a layman.

 

 

“As I was saying, Sansa, Lord Arryn was in comparatively good shape, given his rather advanced age. The bones are in a state that was adequate, a bit more porous than those of a young person, but nothing out of the order. No ulcers on his inner organs; just a cyst, some varicoses and an old hernia to be found. His heart looked more or less normal, too, from what I could gather under these difficult circumstances. I'd have liked to have better light, but here we are.”

“Was the dehydration that you mentioned earlier on deadly?”

“It was the result of a severe diarrhoea, but it wasn't deadly in itself, it only added to the other problems. No, the fatal point is the cause for the diarrhoea, that is the damaged intestines.”

Sansa nodded understandingly.

“I'm no expert, and even I could see that they looked virtually moth-eaten.”

“Only that this had nothing to do with moths. I'm sure the poor man must have consumed something that managed to corrode the intestines. Interestingly, the stomach hasn't been harmed too badly; the substance only started to develop its killing effect in the bowels, and the internal leaks and the blood – and soon the pus – poisoned the body.”

“Not a nice death.”

“Certainly not.”

“From what you've been describing there are two or three possible poisons that could have had these effects: Blackweed, Wights' Kiss and the Tears of Lys. Any more ideas about which substance it can have been? Lord Tywin will want to get to know more when he comes back from his emergency meeting.”

Arya snorted: “Of course he will. Hm, well, let's get back to the poison. The Wight's Kiss would have caused light blue discolourations around the eyes, but Lord Arryn doesn't show any, so I'd rule out the Wight's Kiss. Blackweed would be possible, but it would have taken longer to end in death. I'm pretty sure it must be the Tears of Lys. As they have neither colour nor taste it's easy to feed them to someone.”

Sansa mulled things over.

“Rare, expensive and difficult a venom to import, but this doesn't mean much to the upper class. The rich can come by the Tears of Lys, if only they want to. Of course, they'd have to know about this rare poison and its effects in the first place.”

Arya nodded.

“That's right. The culprit must have thought long and hard about what to use.”

“An intelligent and determined person. That reduces the circle of suspects to some extent, even more so here at court, and with regard to intelligence,” Sansa murmured, her interest in the case switched on like the button of an automaton bird.

Arya put the dirty doctor's smock, which had been lent to her for the time being, away and cleaned her hands again.

“I don't know what you think, but I need a good, hot bath now and some food. I'm dying from hunger.”

Sansa started to chuckle in a low voice: “My, you're really extra-special. Cutting open a corpse and sewing it up again and still thinking about food.”

“Pfft! Don't tell me you'd leave a piece of lemon cake on the platter, if you were offered one at this moment.”

Sansa smiled and fastened her little top hat, which she had taken off for the examination, in her hair; and they both looked at the grandfather clock at the other end of the room. It was just striking five o'clock and was imitating Big Benjen's typical melody.

What a long and eventful day it had been – and somehow, Arya had the feeling that it wasn't over yet.


	7. Same day, one hour later, King's Landing, Buckingham Keep, the Prime Minister's Solar

They had left the dead body in the basement of the wing and had been taken care of by a taciturn elder servant with watery eyes. Amongst other things, they had been given a chance to bathe in a guest room, which had been a great relief. Both of them were sipping a cup of tea and enjoying some raisin scones with clotted cream and raspberry jam in the Prime Minister's solar when Lord Tywin entered his new workroom. Arya could tell with one single look that the Lord of Lannister was in an exceptionally bad mood. While he was a stern man in general, his eyes were a good indicator of his particular temper at a given time, Arya had learned – and now, they had taken on the appearance of sharpened green flint.

 

“There is another demise and the disappearance of some important people we need to talk about,” Lord Tywin announced without preamble. “And you must tell me what you have found out.”

Dutifully, Sansa began their report about Lord Arryn's unnatural death, while the Old Lion had taken a seat at his desk and was pressing the tips of his fingers against each other. A forgotten monocle was dangling from a chest pocket of his golden, silken waistcoat with rich embroidery on the lapels. He was listening, eyes closed, intent as always.

When Sansa had ended her account, he pinched the ridge of his nose and commented: “So it's as bad as I thought. Tears of Lys, you say. The king won't be amused. Neither am I. Things have gotten worse while I was in Oldtown to engage you for the case. Lady Lysa, her sickly son and her household staff have left the capital and have made for the Glen. The servants must still be travelling by train, but Lady Arryn took a dragon like we did to get away fast. We must have barely missed her at the airport. She's left a message for the king. She's claiming – and quite rightly so – that she believes that her husband has been murdered; moreover, she predicts that the same person will want to kill her and the little lord next. And this isn't all. One of her servants who had stayed behind, a certain Hugh of Greenglen, was killed in a duel earlier this day.”

On hearing this, Arya could see Sansa prick up her ears.

“Who was the other dueller?”

Lord Tywin uttered an annoyed grunt.

“That's the worst: he was one of the baronets whose liege lord I am. You'll remember him: Gregor Clegane.”

Sansa arched an eyebrow and only asked: “Was?”

“Yes. Was. He's dead, too. They shot each other with pistols.”

“How damned convenient,” Arya cursed, and now it was Lord Tywin's turn to arch his golden-grey eyebrows.

“Do you swear like a bargee in front of your patients as well?” he asked.

“Today's patient was too dead to notice, and otherwise, I work in a hospital for the poor. The people there use more foul language than I do – and they are grateful for the treatment and don't care that I'm a female doctor – unlike the upper class.”

The Old Lion breathed in, and it was obvious that wanted to say something to that, but at the same moment, Lady Sansa cut in: “Lord Tywin, can I see this Hugh and Gregor Clegane lie next to each other?”  
The man looked sceptical for a moment, but didn't even bother himself to ask what could be gained from this procedure.

“That's no problem, Lady Sansa. They're still in the same room down in the basement, in the room next to where Lord Arryn was – the Silent Sisters have taken him away now to prepare his corpse for the burial. But the other two ones are still there. One could get the impression that this building is turning into a morgue. ”

Sansa was deep in thought now.

“I need to speak to the eyewitness who found the bodies as well,” Sansa stated.

“That won't be difficult. It was my son Jaime. And now I've got to attend another meeting. We'll meet later at Lannister Mansion. My coachman will drive you home.”

Arya and Sansa looked both as if they had bitten into a lemon, but if Lord Tywin wanted them to stay there they didn't have another choice.

“I see. All right, we'll meet you in your house then,” Sansa conceded.

The new Prime Minister and Hand of the King simply nodded curtly to indicate he had heard them, then rose and stalked out of the room in his swift, purposeful steps.

 

Arya screwed up her eyes.

“Still a real Prince Charming, he is. But be that as it may – looks as if we've got to get back to work.”

“Yes, indeed, Arya. I need to see the deceased and the place where the duel took place. With regard to Lord Arryn's death I'll have to talk to the kitchen staff, and I must interrogate a few courtiers to find out whose enemy Lord Arryn was. Moreover, I need to see the king's doctor and the chairman of the traders' guild as well as the harbourmaster to find out how the poison could have made its way into Lord Arryn's food or drink.”

“Sounds like a long and tedious to-do list.”

Sansa shrugged and replied with a wry smile: “It sounds like a puzzle with many pieces. My alternative to playing the Game of Thrones.”

“Make sure that this alternative doesn't turn out to be just as dangerous,” Arya warned.

Sansa only batted her beautiful eyelashes at her, and her smile turned ironic.


	8. Same day, fifteen minutes later, King's Landing, Buckingham Keep, basement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter where the "autopsies" tag is relevant...

“Yes, this way! On the side! They must face each other. Good!”

Sansa sounded quite content while the servant with the watery eyes was arranging the bodies of Baronet Gregor and Hugh of Greenglen according to her orders (which was extremely difficult, given the former one's size and heaviness).

“I guess we can't move their arms due to cadaveric rigidity. We'll have to take some broomsticks then to simulate the shooting,” Sansa announced.

Arya was just standing by and watching the process.

When the positions had been set up Sansa walked over to the corpses, knelt down and produced a sketchbook and a pencil. With utmost concentration and in silence she started to draw and to scribble down a few things. Arya knew that her sister had a good eye for details, so she didn't disturb her. Only after a while did she come closer.

She wrinkled her nose in distaste then and commented: “Phew! This young guy over here was really pissed. He smells like a barrel of booze. No wonder he didn't back away from a duel with this gigantic monster of a man. No-one with a clear mind would have been so crazy.”

To Arya's surprise Sansa shook her head.

“The man wasn't drunk.”

“Of course he was! Do you have a cold so you can't smell the alcohol on him?”

Again, her elder sister shook her head.

“Look, Arya, his body smells of drink, fair enough... but he does so only further down. There is no such stench when it comes to his head. And look at his trousers – it may look as if he had made water on himself in death, but there is no urine. The yellow stain is the result of some white wine, and I think I detect some fruit brandy – which is colourless – as well. Someone must have poured the alcohol onto the dead man to make him appear drunk. And there's another strange thing.”

Arya was fascinated by now.

“Which thing, Sansa? Tell me!”

“Here.”

Sansa pointed.

“Do you see where the bullet has ripped open the shorter man's ribcage?”

“Yes, of course. That wound can't be mistaken for anything else.”

“You're right indeed. Now look at the angle. Here, this is the level of Baronet Clegane's hand and that's the impact of the bullet. It entered coming from a slightly higher level.”

“But that would be fine as the baronet was so tall.”

“Yes. But now look at the wound on the baronet's forehead. The deadly bullet should have come from below this level then – but it must have come from above!”

Arya's eyes widened, and she could see the truth clearly, so she called out: “My, that's true! Do you think he was shot down from one of the surrounding roofs or battlements?”

“It's possible. Someone must have killed the killer. The whole affair is getting more interesting by the minute. Can you get out the bullets of the bodies, sister?”

“Yes, sure.”

Arya sighed.

“Why have I actually just had a bath?”

Sansa shrugged and retorted: “Bathing is wonderful. I don't see any problem here to repeat the action later on.”

Arya just harrumphed and set to work.

In the meantime, Sansa asked: “Have the men's clothes and pockets and boots been checked?”

The servant nodded and answered: “Yes. This is the content: a few stags, a dagger and a knife. That was it. And their rooms have already been locked and sealed as well. Lord Tywin suspected you'd want to see them later, and nobody else should be able to enter the chambers before you.”

“That was a wise decision.”

 

At that moment, a copper-haired man in an elegant tartan suit entered the room and lifted his bowler hat to greet them. It was Chief Inspector Addam Lestrade from Skagos Yard. They had met before when Sansa had been investigating in other cases. While Lestrade was polite and honourable enough he had had a hard time to realise that Sansa outdid him when it came to finding the culprit in a really complicated context.

“Lady Sansa! Lady Arya! How very nice to see you again. I wasn't aware you were in town. Are you trying to re-enact the duel?”

“Yes, indeed,” Sansa admitted.

“And have you already found something out?”

Sansa smiled.

“Oh yes! First of all: both are dead, as you can see, and both have been shot, as you could have expected.”

Lestrade laughed: “How very surprising! Even I could have gathered as much. It leaves me wondering why you're here in such an obvious case.”

“My sister Arya wanted to see the new wax museum, most of all the medical exhibits – but when we came here and and heard from Lord Tywin that there were some real bodies to examine we thought we could come here first.”

Lestrade grinned, winked and answered: “Aaah. I see! Yes, of course, dead bodies are just SO much more fascinating than wax figures. Though you should go and see them, if I may say so. Our dear King Robert is shown there as a young man striking down Rhaegar Targaryen with the backside of his famous rifle. They've imitated the Dreadfort's medieval dungeons as well. I tell you – it'll give you the creeps. There's even a partly flayed man on a table. Of course, Petyr Moriarty insisted on adding a room to the museum that is restricted to grown-ups, and you've got to pay an extra entrance fee. Anyway, you should see Lord Tywin's figure! It's too hilarious to be true – he's smiling, will you believe it?”

“We've already heard of that ominous smile from Lord Lannister himself,” Sansa said and went on: “But Petyr Moriarty, you say? My mother's childhood friend? Haven't heard his name for ages. And why would he want an extra section in the wax museum?”

Lestrade coughed and cleared his throat in sudden embarrassment: “Oh, I shouldn't have mentioned that bit. It's... it's more interesting for men, you see.”

Arya, who had been quiet all the time, because she had been dealing with the corpses, couldn't resist to put her two silver stags in: “Oh, Lestrade, you mean that this section mirrors the interior of a brothel, is that it? What do they show there? Only various positions or also toys and custom action figure sceneries including bondage?”

The copper-haired chief inspector, who was anything but a wimp in most situations, flushed scarlet within seconds and stammered something unintelligible while Arya sported an impish smile. The listening servant had taken on an interesting facial hue as well.

“My dear sister,” Sansa chided her with a twinkle in her eyes, “how can you do this to poor Lestrade? Why, a gentleman like him can't talk freely about whippings and special swings and an extended use of furry handcuffs in the presence of true ladies.”

The chief inspector swallowed his own spit, declared the two duelists to be as dead as two doornails and disappeared from sight with a coat billowing behind him.

 

No sooner had he disappeared when the two women burst into fits of laughter. Sansa even wiped away a tear.

She giggled: “Arya, you rascal! You really know how to scare off a gentleman!”

“Pfft, sister, don't hide your aether lamp under a bushel,” Arya laughed back, “it was you who crowned it all by giving naughty examples.”

Turning serious again, she went on: “Look here! These are the two bullets you were asking for. This is the one I found in Hugh of Greenglen's chest, and this one was stuck in the baronet's head. I was lucky I got it out so easily without having to saw the skull apart.”

The servant's face colour immediately switched from red to green. Sansa, however, didn't even flinch at Arya's words.

“Hm, they used Summerhall pistols in the duel, and the calibre is right for this bullet. But the second one... it's bigger. Would have been fitting for a Black Crow's or a Mountain Clan's rifle. I'll need to do some more investigations with the bullets. I want to have them put into a little box, so I can take them along.”

At once, the servant sprang into action.

“What about the site of crime?” Arya wanted to know.

“Good point! Let's have a first look now. We likely won't see much in the lamplight outside, but you never know – and tomorrow, we'll inspect the place more closely. I only fear that many possible hints have already been trampled.”

Having finished their duties in the basement, they cleaned themselves once more and then continued with their local enquiries.


	9. Same day, two hours later, King's Landing, Buckingham Keep, main yard

“We need to get back to Lannister Mansion,” Sansa informed the coachman, and there was more than a trace of exhaustion in her voice.

The man uttered something between a “m'lady” and a growl. Arya looked at the towering person. In the semi-dark, with only the flickering light of some aether lamps available, the horrible scars on the right side of his face glistened even more menacingly than they did in broad daylight. The coachman was already opening the door of the carriage and lowering the little stepladder for them. When Sansa entered the vehicle he took her arm to help her up.

Since Arya didn't want to come any closer to this particular one of Lord Tywin's minions than necessary she said: “I'm not wearing any skirts that could disturb my climb, so you don't need to lend me a hand.”

“One hand wouldn't be enough for you anyway. Your husband must be very busy educating a skittish woman like you,” the coachman answered... and put BOTH hands around her middle, hauled her into the air as if she weighed nothing, elicited a surprised shriek from her, and – leaving out the stepladder – he deposited her in the carriage directly.

“You bastard!” Arya cursed. “How dare you talk to me and touch me like that!”

The man only uttered a dark snicker and replied: “You wanted into the carriage. You ARE in the carriage. No need to complain. And no need to fear anything from me either. You're too skinny and too small a bone for a dog like me. Oh, and your language isn't better than mine, given the swear words you're using.”

Bang! The carriage door closed shut, and a moment later, the horses started to move.

 

Arya was furious.

“Did you hear and see that nasty brute? Boah, I'd like to give him a good punch in his smug face!”

Sansa giggled, a rare occurrence these days.

“At least, there's no reason for Gendry to be jealous.”

“And if this ruffian ever changed his mind Gendry and me, we'd both turn his balls into jelly.”

Sansa's giggles turned into fully-fledged laughter: “Haha, why do I have the feeling that you wouldn't leave much for Gendry to do?”

And then, Arya's mood was restored. Both sisters were laughing freely – something they couldn't remember ever having done together.

When they were finally recovering, Sansa gasped: “I feel I should thank the man for triggering off such merriment. What do you think...”

“LANNISTER MANSION!” the male steel-on-stone voice that corresponded to the object of their talk boomed down from the coach box while the carriage itself was coming to a halt.

At once, one could see Sansa's good mood crumble. It was obvious: there were too many bad memories connected to this place for her.

Arya tried to be compassionate and pressed her sister's hand.

Once more, the carriage door swung open. This time, Sansa needed more help and support on the stepladder, and she leaned heavily onto the strong arm that was offered her.

 

Arya wanted to distract her sister and brought up their investigations again to do so: “What a pity we didn't find anything interesting where the duel took place, but it was only to be expected in the dark. I only wonder which conflict this Hugh of Greenville and this Gregor Clegane had in the first place...”

Suddenly, it wasn't Sansa who stumbled – but the coachman...what was his name again? Ah, yes, Sandor, but everyone had only called him “the Hound” at the Baskerville estate where they had met him first; it was all coming back to Arya now.

“Gregor Clegane?” the man rumbled. “What about him?”

Sansa was willing to explain the context: “The baronet had a duel today, and he was killed in the course of it, just like his opponent. Why do you ask?”

The coachman was standing there as if he had swallowed a stick – but after a moment, he threw back his head and roared and laughed as if he had just experienced some kind of triumph. Sansa was in the process of backing away from this weird behaviour... when she was being grabbed around the middle and was being swirled around in such a way that her little top hat landed on the ground. And all the while the man was laughing like mad. Arya could only goggle at the scene. What on earth had gotten into him!?

“Let me go!” Sansa gasped in the end and asked: “What's wrong with you?”

“Oh, there's nothing wrong, little lady, believe me! Seven hells, he's dead! Dead! Hahaha, one monster less in this world!”

“You knew the baronet?” Sansa demanded to know at once, like a wolf that had picked up an interesting scent.

“One might say we were old enemies. It's been years since I've seen Gregor the last time, and it's good there will be no other meetings in the future. Apart from a reunion in the seventh hell, of course. I'm only sorry I didn't finish him off myself. Would have given a lot for that chance.”

Both sisters ware gaping now.

Arya was just about to ask this Sandor another question...

… when there was a delighted voice from the entrance: “Sansa, my dear! How very good to see you again! Come in! Come in! Have you already had dinner? No? Ha, that's just what I guessed: that my Lord Father would drag you through Westeros and wouldn't even think of offering you something to eat. Well, well, that'll have to be evened out now. We'll open a good bottle of Arbour gold now, too, if you don' mind.”

Sansa shot the coachman a quick look and murmured: “I'll have to ask you some questions about Gregor Clegane later.”

Next, she turned towards their host, smiled and answered: “Tyrion! Good evening! How friendly to think of our well-being. I must say that I could kill for a good chicken drumstick now.”

Sansa's ex-husband, Tyrion Lannister, waddled over to them on his short legs, greeted Arya and kissed Sansa's hand. Together, they marched into the house, leaving the coachman behind.

 

Tywin's youngest offspring looked up at his ex-wife, smiled jovially and stated: “You've become even more beautiful, if this is possible at all, Sansa. Oldtown seems to be a good place for you. You must absolutely tell me about the latest developments there.”

“You look good, too, Tyrion,” Sansa uttered, and the impish man laughed.

“Ah, you mean: still as ugly and as easy to discern. And don't say anything else; I know the truth for what it is. But let's go to the dining room now. I received a message from my father earlier on, and everything has been prepared for your stay. His Lordship will arrive in about half an hour to learn what you've found out in this new case.”

“I see.”

 

Arya simply trudged after the two through the entrance hall of Lannister Mansion. She remembered the building well, and it hadn't changed much. In fact, she could tick off a mental list of items that had remained the same. There were still the thick, crimson carpets bearing the family's Lion sigil, the high walls that were covered with an intricate red-golden fabric, the gallery with the golden-framed older and younger paintings of the members of Lannister family, the heavy crystal chandelier with its aether bulbs, the rosewood furniture, two ancient sets of armour and some old weapons on the wall... yes, it was still all the same.

A sneering voice woke Arya from her reverie: “Ah, and who's there? The girl who still doesn't know how to put on a dress.”

Arya's head pivoted around, and she shot back: “Same as you, Kingslayer.”

Lord Tywin's smirking elder son Jaime was behind her and laughed: “Touché! Well met, my lady. Though I may say that soon I'll at least be able to train how to put off a dress.”

“Is there a masked-ball in the near future where you intend to show off your female side?”

Jaime shook his fair curls in a dandyish movement and grinned even wider, clearly enjoying their little verbal joust.

“Couldn't one say that the whole life is like a masked-ball?”

“Don't try to sound like a philosopher, Kingslayer; it doesn't become you,” Arya snorted.

“Oh, I'd never take away from my clever little brother what is his due in the family – his wit, for example.”

Arya screwed up her eyes and Jaime Lannister laughed again. At long last, they had reached the dining room, which was as elegant as the rest of the house, of course. Arya only wanted to eat her dinner, to report back to the Old Lion, and to retreat to her guest room. Nothing else, least of all some Lannister small talk during an extended dinner. It had been a long day, and all she longed for was to be sound asleep before Sansa would start to fiddle on her violin again.


	10. Same day, one hour later, King's Landing, Lannister Mansion, dining room

Arya noticed Tywin Lannister, who was sitting next to her, scowl in Sansa's and Tyrion's direction. After the lord's arrival and the planned concise report in an adjoining room they had resumed their dinner – and the Imp had not exaggerated: the kitchen had been well-prepared to entertain them with various courses and fantastic delicacies. There had even been a chocolate cake. Chocolate was an exotic import from beyond Asshai, and it was as precious as gold.

At first, Arya had been confused: why should the Lannisters be such generous hosts for them? But then, she had understood. They wanted to show the young women what they could have enjoyed regularly in their midst.

 

“Why on earth did the two of them insist on their divorce? Tyrion and Sansa may have had some problems in their wedded life, but look at them now! They're behaving as if they were friends. I should have never allowed them to split up,” Lord Tywin breathed into her ear, and he sounded incredibly annoyed.

“But that's the point!” Arya murmured back and gave him a meaningful look. “Some people are meant to be lovers. Some are meant to be spouses. And some are meant to be friends. And you shouldn't try to fuss with those categories. Tyrion and Sansa have become friends now, but that was only possible when the didn't have to be spouses any more. They can jest about intimacy together, but they can't carry it out together.”

The Old Lion seemed to be really angry now.

“My younger gargoyle of a son lies with all sorts of whores. Why shouldn't he be able to lie with HER then?”

“We've been through this, haven't we? There is a difference between Sansa and a whore, isn't there?”

Lord Tywin's answer turned out louder than he might have intended: “I only hope that Jaime's wedded life will work out better then.”

At once, the Kingslayer stiffened and made a sour face, while Sansa pricked up her ears, interrupted her conversation with Tyrion and asked: “Ser Jaime, is that true? You're going to marry?”

The Kingslayer looked as if he'd rather jump into a bear pit than into marriage and didn't say a thing, which spoke volumes.

Thus, it was Lord Tywin who informed them: “Yes, Jaime is going to marry, the betrothal will be announced in all the newspapers tomorrow. It was a difficult task, but now that he can't work for the king directly any more after his injury I've made him a fine match.”

Finally, Jaime spoke up and also showed them his golden hand, which had various joints, and whose index finger was, in fact, a little pistol: “You mean that now that I'm a cripple you could barter me to a stupid cow of a woman. What in the seven hells should I do with her? She's a leading suffragette and has only agreed to this marriage, because she was blackmailed by her father. He threatened her to ship her off to the sanatorium on Skagos where Prince Joffrey died.”

Arya erupted with laughter: “YOU and a suffragette? Hahaha, this is to good to be true. I'm sure I'll adore your future wife!”

“Pfft!” Ser Jaime pouted, and Lord Tywin declared icily: “My son Jaime will do what Tyrion and Sansa could not. He'll get his wife with child. Sire an heir.”

At once, the mood dropped to a low point.

Tyrion tried to ease the tension again by jesting: “Well, better Jaime than me, wouldn't you agree, father?”

In answer to that, the Old Lion rose and retorted: “Indeed. Better Jaime than you. But you could have at least tried to be less of a failure and a shame for the family. And now, I'm off to Buckingham Keep again. There is another meeting. I'll not be back before midnight.”

Without another word he strutted out of the room.

 

Arya let out her breath, and she knew again why she had decided against daily chocolate cakes in the past.

“I think that's a good moment to retire. I'm very tired,” she declared.

“At least in this specific point I've got to agree with you,” Jaime uttered and rose as well.

And Tyrion asked Sansa: “By the way, I haven't told you – I've got a new laboratory in the basement. If you've got some minutes left I'd like to show it to you.”

Arya knew Tyrion was doing this to lessen her sister's guilty conscience (after all, Sansa had had her share in the lack of joint offspring, too) and to take off the edge of his father's insult.

Sansa was grateful for the change of topic and chimed in with fresh enthusiasm: “Why, that's great! A laboratory? Is there something we could actually do? I've got two bullets whose chemical composition I'd like to find out.”

“Splendid,” the Imp intoned. “Let's go!”

 

Arya was relieved: in this way she'd have time to prepare for sleep before Sansa's violin exercises would start. She hoped she'd have some sweet dreams of Gendry. Or even some naughty ones. Arya missed her husband and couldn't wait for him to arrive in the capital. He couldn't offer her chocolate cake, but he did offer her his heart.... and some other rather delicious things that were certainly not to sneeze at.


	11. Next morning, King's Landing, Lannister Mansion, dining room

There had been no fiddling at night, as far as Arya could tell, and certainly not in the morning. It was weird that her sister should not end and start her day without her normal ritual. Hopefully, everything was all right with her?

Arya already was munching like a hungry wolf on scrambled eggs and roasted bacon, accompanied by a mug of malt coffee when Sansa entered the room. To Arya's surprise, her sister was in a good mood. She was wearing a nut brown dress with white Myrish laces at the sleeves and collar and with delicate white little buttons that disappeared under just as delicate a white corset. Sansa looked beautiful in it – only Arya had never seen that particular dress before.

So she pointed with her chin and asked: “Good morning. Is that one new?”

“Oh yes!” Sansa chirped and sounded happy indeed. “Tyrion gave it to me yesterday evening. He said it was discovered during the big spring clean-up. He had meant to give it to me some two-and-a-half years ago for my nameday, only with our divorce he simply forgot about it. And it's so good to have it now, as we couldn't bring along some extra clothes in all the haste. Oh, and you're still wearing your brown leather suit. You need some clothes for changing as well.”

“Gendry will arrive with his train by six o'clock in the evening. I've just received an automaton bird. He'll bring along a bag with clothes for me.”

Sansa nodded approvingly.

“That's good. Gendry is such a wonderful man. You're lucky, you know.”

Arya smiled like a fool.

“I know, Sansa, I know.”

“But I've got to tell you a few more things now, and it's all really exciting!”

Arya's sister sounded no less than thrilled, and at once this mood was passed on to Arya herself.

“Well, get started then!”

 

“First of all, I examined the bullets. It was perfect that I could use Tyrion's laboratory to divide them into their chemical components – Ty's brand new aether condensator is so much more precise than anything I've ever seen! – and in this way, it was possible to determine where the ore for the bullet came from. Well, the one from the pistol came from the mountains of the Glen, which was no surprise. Now, the important point is: the ore for the bullet in the rifle came from the same mountains!”

Arya only asked back dryly: “Have you just called the Imp 'Ty'?”

Sansa waved her hand in a dismissive gesture and replied: “Tyrion then, if you prefer that. But didn't you hear a word of what I was saying about the rifle?”

“You mean that chances are high it was a Mountain Clans' weapon? Oh, I heard you quite well. Perhaps you should talk to your ex-husband about this, rather than to me – I mean: he's got good contacts to the Mountain Clans, if I remember correctly, hasn't he?”

Sansa nodded, and her cheeks turned rosy from enthusiasm when she continued speaking: “You're right, and I've done that already. He promised me to contact Timmet, one of their leaders, and to ask him to keep his eyes and ears open, in case there's some helpful news about the rifle in question. Or its user. However, there's something else that is just as fascinating.”

“You've got me on tenterhooks, sister.”

 

“The last thing I did yesterday evening was to talk to this coachman, Sandor. And what shall I say – I found out why he was behaving in such a disconcerting way yesterday.”

“So? Get on with the story!”

Sansa looked downright conspirational now.

“You won't believe it: Sandor's family name is... Clegane! He's Gregor's younger, long-lost brother!”

“What!?” Arya squeaked and went on in a more subdued voice: “You mean... this ugly, brutish coachman is, in fact, a nobleman? But why does he work as a simple servant?”

“Ah,” Sansa made. “I promised him not to give away the details. The only thing I can say is that Sandor ran away from his family and his monstrous brother when he was twelve. I wonder what Lord Tywin will say to all of this.”

“Whohoo, Sansa, this is incredible! Who would have ever thought of that. So will the Hound become a lord in his own right, now that his brother is dead?”

“I've already checked it: Baronet Gregor was twice a widower, and he had no legitimate children. You're right: it means that our coachman is his legitimate heir.”

Arya whistled in astonishment, and she could imagine vividly Sansa's surprised face when her sister had found out this secret the evening before.

 

However, Sansa was changing the topic once more: “Today, we'll start with the investigation of the site of crime. Jaime Lannister will accompany us to Buckingham Keep. I met him in the corridor on my way here and talked to him. After all, he was the one who found the two dead duelists.”

Arya wrinkled her nose in distaste.

“That arrogant bastard with his swanky golden hand,” she commented.

Sansa shrugged.

“That may be true, but he used to be a competent fighter with a good eye before he was wounded by a wight in the Winter War. It makes me hope that he remembers a few of those details that must have been trampled by now.”

In a gloomy voice, Arya retorted: “Yes, let's hope so. It's the only good reason to endure his snobbish presence.”

Sansa snickered and teased her: “He's a chip of the old block, wouldn't you say so?”

Arya harrumphed and answered: “Didn't know you're familiar with sarcasm. Is your ex-'Ty' rubbing off on you lately?”

She saw Sansa screw up her eyes, and irritated Arya rose to help herself to a second ration of scrambled egg from the gold-studded sideboard.

“Bickering like in the good old times of our childhood,” she thought, feeling a whiff of melancholy.

It was time they left to tackle the day's exigences.


	12. Same day, King's Landing, Buckingham Keep, behind the stables

“It was here that I found them in the morning. I had stayed in the palace overnight, father had just informed me about Lord Arryn's death and had merely left for Oldtown. Well, I wanted to return to Lannister Mansion – and then, I found the two bodies here. Of course, I raised an alarm at once,” the Kingslayer was rambling on and on.

Sansa was listening intently, smoking late Lord Holmes's elegant weirwood pipe, and mused next: “How weird that the two had a duel on the castle grounds. Didn't anyone hear a thing? The employees in the stables? One of the sentries holding vigil?”

“Unfortunately, one of the stable boys had celebrated his nameday the evening before, so the staff didn't notice a thing and were still nursing their hangovers when I asked them about the event. And I fear that even if someone did hear something he wouldn't breathe a word and would simply want to keep out of trouble. With regard to the night vigil it's even more problematic. The nearest sentry had fallen asleep during his shift. From what I've heard he has already been bound to the aether pole as a punishment. His chest must be well-done now.”

“Ouch,” Arya commented and added darkly: “How very convenient that there were no witnesses.”

Sansa, however, didn't allow frustration to become dominant in this situation, and just came up with a request: “Jaime, please show me what the exact positions of the bodies were.”

The Kingslayer smiled.

“Of course, Sansa. Look, here was Gregor Clegane and his arm was like this. The pistol had fallen out of his hand, and it was lying here, close by. He was still warm when I touched him. The smaller man was here. His arm was like this, and here was the pistol.”

Sansa arched an eyebrow and asked the Lannister man: “What... wait! Show me again!”

Ser Jaime assumed the position he had explained moments before a second time.

“Oh, how remarkable!” Sansa exclaimed, her blue eyes sparkling in excitement... and Arya didn't have a clue why her sister was so thrilled.

“What is it, sister?” she asked.

Sansa sounded self-content when she announced: “The clues all fit together. This wasn't a duel – it was well-planned murder that should appear like a duel. Remember the thing about the alcohol, Arya. And now the pistol – Hugh of Greenglen didn't have one for shooting; it was only put into his hand later to make it look as if he had fired at the baronet. And Gregor Clegane, having shot the man, was killed himself the next instant by someone who had been hiding on the stable roof. In this way, the angles of the bullets fit into the bigger picture, too. And it means that the shorter man's murder had been well-planned beforehand.”

Jaime smirked and declared: “You're a clever girl, Sansa. You've got me wondering now, if at least the killer of the killer is still alive.”

Arya snorted and suggested: “Perhaps we should have a second look around, if we can find some more details that we might have overlooked last night in the dark.”

Sansa nodded, and the trio set to work. Unfortunately, there were no more clues, not even on the stable roof. Still, they could be content that their morning mission hadn't been futile.

After the second search, the Kingslayer excused himself and left them.

 

When he was gone, Arya murmured into Sansa's direction: “What I'm asking myself: Baronet Clegane was one of the Lannisters' inferior noblemen and bound to them by an oath. Hugh of Greenglen was shot by a Mountain Clan's rifle, that is by people who are loosely connected to the Lannisters via Tyrion. The Lannisters are also clever enough to arrange a fake duel. Aren't you thinking what I'm thinking? Just adding my five coppers here.”

“I understand what you want to say, Arya,” Sansa said. “However, we don't have enough clues yet, and before I haven't found out everything I won't evaluate the case.”

Arya sighed and accepted the inevitable: “Off to the next points on your investigation list then.”


	13. Same day, King's Landing, Buckingham Keep, healing quarters

On the few occasions when Arya had seen him in the past she had never quite liked Maester Pycelle, the king's doctor. He shared all the characteristics of a dirty old man – that was the impression she had of him. Someone who had become a healer to show off, and to be able to fondle women.

Arya thought back to Maester Luwin, who had treated all the Holmes' ailments when she had been a child. He had also taught her how to read and to write – little as she had appreciated it back then. He had been serious and competent and wouldn't have deserved his sad ending. It should have been more peaceful and dignified.

But no, Arya, reprimanded herself. She wouldn't think of that day: the day when her family had been murdered by someone she had once nearly called a brother. No, no, she had to think of the present.

Thus, she looked at the other healer, who was sitting at his desk with a big microscope positioned on it, his gnarled hands in his lap. He had ignored Arya, knowing full well she was a doctor, too, and thus showing her what he thought of a woman doing this kind of work. Well, he wasn't the first ignorant and wouldn't be the last one.

 

“Lady Sansa, it is true that I tried to help Lord Arryn, and I did my very best, every trick... but there was naught I could do. This diarrhoea caused him to wilt under my hands, if I may use that metaphor. Well, Lord Arryn was an old man, and the Stranger will come to all of us one day.”

Sansa didn't betray any of her feelings or thoughts. Her face was a perfect mask of cool politeness.

“What about his son? I've heard he's a sickly child,” she changed the subject, instead of hinting at the point that Jon Arryn had, in fact, been murdered. 

It was obvious: the man wouldn't cooperate once they got to a touchy point, such as the Prime Minister having been murdered and him not reaching that diagnosis.

 

But now, Maester Pycelle nodded fervently with respect to the new question, and his long, white beard wobbled in an ugly way, as if it had a life of it's own.

“This is true. Most unfortunate, the boy's fate. He suffers from the falling sickness, and his body and mind haven't developed according to his age. There were two or three treatments I had in mind to help the poor young lord, but I'm sorry to say that Lady Lysa was so distrustful that she declined all my suggestions.”

Arya could only think: “The most reasonable thing I've heard about our aunt lately. If I've ever seen a perfidious man it's Pycelle. How he's lying about Lord Arryn's death! He must know the man was poisoned. Wouldn't be surprised either, if it turned out that the doctor had a hand in aunt Lysa's miscarriages. Bah, I want to vomit!”

She shot her sister a quick glance and caught a similar look from Sansa. Arya knew then that her sister was thinking the same, and she felt better at once.

 

“Maester Pycelle, do you know anything about Lord Arryn's latest projects, or whether he he was planning anything unpopular?”

Sansa was still the very image of a friendly, controlled, but also confident and aloof lady.

“Oh, I'm not informed about the late lord's political plans as this is not my business. I'm just an expert in the field of medicine. I know nothing of the machinations of the realm.”

“No, and the moon consists of violet cheese,” Arya sneered inwardly.

Meanwhile, the doctor stroked his beard and waffled on: “I can only say that Lord Arryn was a respected man, and of utmost competence. We've never had a finer Prime Minister and Hand of the King, I'd say.”

“A wonder the man isn't slipping on his own trail of verbal slime,” Arya thought.

 

Just when she was feeling she couldn't bear it any more, Sansa spoke: “It's a consolation to know that my aunt was married to such a good man, and it's a great loss for the realm that he has passed away.”

“Indeed, indeed, my lady. I can see you've got a gentle soul and a good heart.”

Arya could easily translate these false words into their real meaning: “You're too daft to know left from right.”

By the look of it, Pycelle was still taking Sansa for the naïve, air-headed child she had once been. What an idiot. At least this interrogation was over now.

 

No sooner had they left the healing quarters when Sansa mouthed to her: “Please remind me that I should seek this maester's advice, if I ever want to meet an early ending. How the king is able to keep him at court is a mystery to me. The way he treated you as if you were thin air! Somebody put some valves into his brain; perhaps then he'll be able to accept your worth.”

On hearing these words, Arya was gobsmacked. Tempered Sansa, who knew so well how to control herself and how to lock her negative feelings on the inside, was furious now! And because of her, Arya, having been treated unfairly! Arya's heart swelled with a love for her sister she hadn't felt when they had been children. 

 

Sansa looked at her silver pocket watch.

“Let's get a lunch in the kitchen, what do you say? I could do with a hearty snack – and it would also be the perfect opportunity to find out, if anybody noticed anything strange about Lord Arryn's food in the past.”

“That's an idea I can support with all my heart. I'd opt for some beans and eggs and bacon.”

With new motivation they contacted Lord Tywin's servant and had him show them to the kitchen wing.


	14. Same day, King's Landing, Buckingham Keep, Queen Cersei's solar

They had already half expected it, but none of the cooks or kitchen servants had noticed anything special about Lord Arryn's food before his death. They had only learned that he had preferred it in little pieces, so that he hadn't had to chew so much, due to his rather poor dental situation. Otherwise, however, there had been no new insights into the case. Still, it hadn't been all for nothing, because they had been able to invigorate themselves with a tasty lunch. The chef had been cooperative in this way, and Arya had smacked her lips in delight.

 

Only now she wished she had eaten less, because the admittance to the queen's presence made her sick. Cersei had daubed her face with layers of make-up so as to cover her first age-related wrinkles, and the golden sheen of her hair didn't look quite natural either – in short: her looks corresponded with her character.

“Sansa,” the queen intoned with a haughty yawn and held out her hand so that they had to kneel and to kiss her ring. “I was told by Jaime that it's necessary to receive you, though I don't see the point to entrust a family failure with these investigations in the first place.”

This insulting display of arrogance shocked Arya, and the thought that her sister had been exposed to the queen regularly during her marriage to Tyrion caused her to feel even queasier. How Sansa had been able to bear this coldheartedness in a calm demeanour was a mystery.

 

Sansa's back and shoulders were rigid, but she was controlled when she said: “It was your own father, Lord Lannister, who deemed me suitable for the task, due to various criminal cases that I've solved in the past.”

“Pah! You've mainly managed to undo your femininity alongside with your sordid marriage to Tyrion. And my father based his decision on the fact that the little wolf-bitch that is your sister is leading him by his cock.”

Arya straightened in shock, and she called out in anger: “How dare you say such a thing!? I'm a married woman – and the last time I looked at my husband it certainly wasn't your father!”

The queen snorted and commented: “So what? Not even your own father was faithful to the woman he allegedly loved.”

Arya couldn't believe it; the implication that she might be willing to betray Gendry and the coarseness of mentioning her father's only mistake nearly caused her to fling her surgeon's knife at Cersei.

“One shouldn't conclude someone's behaviour from one's own standards,” Sansa cut in icily.

Cersei's eyes became slits, and she hissed: “Careful, Sansa, this statement is close to a calumniation of the queen – which again might be considered high treason.”

Sansa was just as cool when she answered: “I wasn't giving any names – just offering food for thought. And perhaps we should be frank now: we're both not happy about this interview, and our attitudes are... mutual. So better just give me some answers to my questions, and this meeting will be over all the sooner.”

The queen shot Sansa a vicious look and spat: “Ask your questions then.”

 

Meanwhile, Arya was entertaining various colourful fantasies of “sticking the queen with the pointy end”.

“Your Grace, how did you experience Lord Arryn's end?”

Queen Cersei shrugged: “One day, the old man felt ill. Afterwards, I didn't see him any more, and then, he was dead.”

“Did he have any enemies?”

The queen laughed in a cruel way and sneered: “He was playing the Game of Thrones – like all of us. That should be enough of an answer.”

Sansa arched an eyebrow and wanted to know more details: “Was he planning anything unpopular of late? Do you know who his enemies were?”

“He was Robert's pet; you should ask him. Arryn was always trying to collect some money for the realm's coffers. Anyone who'd have to pay more taxes in this way would make a formidable enemy.”

“I see.”

Still, Sansa wasn't quite content.

“What do you think of Baronet Clegane's death?”

Another cruel laughter.

“That's a pity. Each noble house needs a monster for the dirty jobs, and he was... competent when it came to fighting for the Lannisters' interests. Now, someone else will have to replace him. Well, there's no lack of sadistic cruelty – just of men his size who can push the Lions' aims through.”

 

“If the queen wasn't so loathsome her wretched existence and incapability to be good would be pitiable,” Arya thought.

Finally, Sansa was having enough of questioning Cersei.

“I guess we'll have to ask the king himself then.”

“You do as you please,” the queen commented without interest and waved them away.

Once the heavy doors were closed behind Arya and Sansa the former one stamped her foot in frustration and the latter one looked at Cersei's immovable guard as if she were studying a heap of dung.

She announced: “Arya, I think we'll go to the kitchen next.”

Arya was confused. Why return to where they had come from?

 

Once they were out of earshot Sansa growled under her breath: “That bastard over there is Ser Meryn. It's difficult to be a lady and not to wish him an infection with Greyscales. And now, I need something sweet. Lots of sugar. Lemon cake, semolina pudding, honeybread – whatever. And one shot glass of strongwine. If I don't get a sugar shock now I'll have a screaming fit. Pycelle, Cersei, Meryn... I need to recover before I meet King Robert.”

Arya nodded. She had to admit that she understood her sister all too well.

Then, Sansa whispered in her ear: “The queen's hand – did you notice the smell?”

“Which smell?”

“Musk. Man. As if she had just... touched someone. In certain private places. And there was a person in the adjoining bedroom, I'm sure. I heard the short, heavy tap of a male riding boot. Would explain why the queen reacted so strongly with regard to the topic of infidelity.”

Arya's eyes became as big as saucers.

“You mean... she's got a lover and is receiving him now? But then we must inform the king!”

Sansa sighed.

“He'll be gone by now. I'm sure there is a secret passage.”

Arya cursed – and was even more astonished when Sansa added: “At the moment, it's better if this affair isn't uncovered. In this way, it's possible to keep an eye on it without the queen knowing what I know – and perhaps we'll actually find out more this way.”

With a scowl, Arya commented: “You sound as if you know who the queen's lover is.”

Her sister flashed her a tense smile and answered: “I've lived in the capital for quite a while, so I was indeed able to recognise the scent. At first, I didn't want to believe it, to be honest. But when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, _however improbable_ , must be the truth.“

Arya didn't quite understand – but at the same time she was also quite sure she didn't want to know.


	15. Same day, one hour later, King's Landing, Buckingham Keep, King Robert's solar

It was good that they had refreshed themselves. A big piece of tangerine cheesecake and the latest fashion drink – a dark, bitter, but also reviving brew named “coffye” from the Summer Isles – had done a lot for them to feel better again. And this new energy was crucial as it wasn't reciprocated by the monarch.

The king looked unwell, Arya found. His bloated cheeks, veined from too much wine consumption, were pallid. His first-born's “madness” and subsequent death had been a horrible blow for him, and his Prime Minister's death – Lord Arryn had been his foster father – seemed to have made things even worse for him.

 

“Lady Sansa, Lady Arya”, he greeted them darkly, stood up and caught them unceremoniously in a big bear hug... only it looked as if it was him who needed support, rather than the other way around.

“Your Grace!” Sansa spluttered, embarrassed, and Arya wasn't feeling much better. The smell of wine wafted through the air.

King Robert let go of them and rumbled appreciatively: “You two look good! You've both turned into real beauties, do you know that? Your father would be so proud of you. Lady Arya, you're the very image of your aunt, and there has never been a more wonderful woman, I swear. I guess I can't win you over for a marriage with my dear Tommen? He's a good lad, you know.”

 

The very same Prince Tommen, a pudgy youngster with a monocle who was sporting his first fuzz of a beard, and whose voice was undergoing its puberty vocal change, was sitting in an armchair slightly behind his father; he palmed his face on hearing his sire's suggestion and mouthed “help” and “mercy” at them. He was clearly not in the mood for marrying anyone at all yet.

Arya, who usually wasn't a blushing one, flushed scarlet, coughed and answered: “I'm deeply honoured, Your Grace, but I am already married.”

“I see... your husband must be a lucky bastard indeed. What's his name? Have I heard of him?”

“He's a commoner, Your Grace. His name is Gendry Watson.”

The king furrowed his brow.

“Gendry Watson, Gendry Watson... I think I've heard that name before. Let me just think about it for a moment and look into one of Jon's old lists. You wait here.”

And with those words he left the room.

Sansa and Arya were both confused, as they hadn't even been able to start with their interrogation yet.

 

“Thank you,” Prince Tommen whispered at them. “I mean... err... it's not as if you aren't beautiful, Lady Arya and Lady Sansa, but really, he's going on my nerves with that topic every day...”

He shrugged.

Sansa looked at him and announced: “You've got someone else in mind already, but the king isn't convinced.”

Prince Tommen gaped like a carp.

“How do you know?”

“Isn't that a woman's token in your breast pocket? Looks like an embroidered handkerchief with the sigil of a...” Sansa faltered and then breathed: “Lady Shireen? Your cousin?”

The crown prince was close to choking now, and he stuffed the treacherous piece of cloth deeper into his pocket. How Sansa had managed to deduce the exact female identity from the Baratheon sigil was unclear to Arya, but it didn't matter either.

 

The same moment, the door to the adjacent room burst open. King Robert re-emerged – and he looked a changed man.

His eyes were sparkling with joy, and he exclaimed, booming with laughter: “HOLY SHIT! Welcome into the family, Lady Arya!”

Prince Tommen and Arya were both bemused, but Sansa already seemed to have an inkling (or even more) of what would be the next pieces of information.

 

And then, King Robert dropped the bomb: “Your Gendry is one of my bastards. I think I can still remember his mother. Bloody sweet tavern wench, if I'm not mistaken. Haha, how wonderful! So you're my daughter-in-law then, even if it's on the wrong side of the bed. Oh, I must absolutely do something for you! A belated wedding present, so to speak. I'll give you a nice mansion in the capital, one of the best addresses in town. It's also the least I can do for Ned Holmes's daughter!”

Arya shrieked in shock and uttered the first thing that came to her mind: “Your Grace, that's generous... but we don't have enough money to maintain a house of that size! We're just a doctor and a locomotive driver!”

The king scowled at her.

“And who's what? Are you the doctor?”

Arya was even more puzzled now.

“Erm... yes...?”

“And an excellent one,” Sansa chimed in proudly. “She had already learned all the basics about anatomy and herbs and poisons in Braavos when she returned from her stay abroad, so she only needed one year and a half to get her degree in Oldtown. Nobody has ever earned his or her medical chain link there faster.”

“Is that so?” King Robert mused.

And then, he proclaimed: “Right. Arya, you'll be Tommen's and my personal doctor from now on. That will earn you a fine salary and me perhaps some more years, who knows? Cersei may keep her blasted Pycelle, if she wants to.”

 

Arya couldn't believe her ears any more. Her head was spinning. This was all happening too fast. And though she usually didn't wear a corset – in contrast to her sister – her chest felt tight, and she was fighting for air.

 

Luckily, Sansa was taking over now and steered deftly the king away from this topic and towards the murder of Lord Arryn. She informed him about their findings, and it was obvious that King Robert could not decide whether he should be frustrated of the complexity of the case or grateful for their small initial success.

So Sansa just started to fire off her questions.

 

“Your Grace, do you know who might have been Lord Arryn's enemies? Was he doing or planning anything political that might have triggered off anybody's wrath?”

The king pondered this for a moment and answered: “My Hand was well-respected by everyone, and the people appreciated his thoughtfulness. I can't imagine who might hold a grudge against him.”

“What were his last political projects, Your Grace?”

“Mmmh, I think there were two, though one was more of a private sort, if I'm not mistaken. Some kind of genealogy research.”

“Do you you know any details about it?”

“Nah, that was his business. Just like the financial affairs. He was the one who led day-to-day business. Fuck, I mean, what do I care about money? I'm the king, I'm the one who's giving orders, and Lord Arryn had to carry them out and to help organise the financial things. I only know he kept pestering me with demands of an amusement tax. I was against it, but he was wailing about the debts of the realm all the time, until I agreed under the condition that one royal establishment should be excluded from the tax.”

“Which... establishment was it?”

The king became annoyed and waved his hand.

“The name's Alayaya's, but that's not important. I mean, a man needs his distractions from time to time, and even more so if he's a leader of sorts.”

Sansa had schooled her features so well that there was not even the hint of a reproach to be seen.

 

“There's something else I need to know, Your Grace. Did you know Baronet Clegane or Hugh of Greenglen?”

The king's face turned serious.

“Clegane, you say? Well, with that gigantic size it was impossible to overlook him. I can't say the world is worse off without him. Fantastic fighter, could kill everyone, but his character was dubious. Didn't have much to do with him lately. You should ask Lord Lannister about him, because he was the baronet's liege lord. And Hugh of Greenglen? Never heard of him. Can't help you there. Right, and I think that that's it. You may go now. Tommen, advise the Hand to purchase a nice house for Lady Arya, and escort them out.”

 

The prince rose from his seat and seemed eager to comply.

“Yes, father. If you don't mind I'll come back later. I'd like to have a talk with the ladies.”

The king was relaxed and smiled.

“Sure you can do that, boy. I'll see you at dinner then. I'm off to the aviary with the hawks. I've heard that Maester Samwell is still trying to construct these clockwork hawks, but I tell you, lad, there's nothing better than a real animal for a hunt. Good-bye ladies.”

Sansa and Arya curtsied and left the solar.

Arya's fragmentary thoughts were chasing each other in a fog that might well conceal a mental abyss, and she still thought her knees were made of jelly.


	16. Same day, directly afterwards, King's Landing, Buckingham Keep, corridor

“Follow me, please,” Tommen murmured into their direction and walked on, stoic and upright for his age – and assuming that they would indeed trundle after him.

In that moment, he was both as much of a Lannister as a future king.

 

They sauntered through the endless corridors of Buckingham Keep, and the prince made some small talk as if they were normal private guests and as if he hadn't just found out about a half brother – another bastard brother, to be precise.

Arya and Sansa exchanged a quick glance, both thinking the same: court life had already conditioned the young man, one of its most prevalent rules being never to show any kind of weakness. Oh yes, Arya and Sansa could sing their own song about that unwritten law – and Arya asked herself whether they'd find out some more about the prince's personal tune and lyrics.

 

“All the chandeliers were aetherised one year ago, after one of the servants let a candle fall and nearly burned down the palace. And the silken hangings on the walls of the many living rooms and bedrooms are all Myrish productions. You may have heard of their latest invention: the Aether Jenny. No spinning machine is as good as this one. Of course, father is trying to employ some skilled workers from Myr to be able to construct these machines as well, but so far we haven't been successful. I keep wondering, if the frames could be altered and adapted so that they could spin the wool of the Northern sheep. By the way – now that we're talking of the North... I was conferring with the Mormonts the other week via automaton bird. We're planning to install a morse code telegraph line, our good Maester Tarly is working on it, but we still have to rely on the birds. Anyway, the Mormont women are doing a good job up there. The wood and paper production are fine, and the northern taxes thus help to keep the national debts better in check... though it could never be enough, I fear. At the same time, I feel that the day will come when you'll have to go back to the North, Lady Sansa. Lady Mormont is a good governor, but you are the heir... and here we're in the park now. In the open, we can talk more freely about a few things considering your murder cases.”

 

Arya's head was spinning from all the zigzag turns Prince Tommen's monologue had taken.

In the meantime, Sansa's face had become even stonier than it had already been, and she declared, brushing her private affairs away: “Indeed – I would prefer to focus on the case at hand. I guess you want to tell us about your true heritage.”

Prince Tommen flinched, and Arya pricked up her ears. So her sister was finally gathering up speed to get to the gist of the matter.

 

“Lady Sansa, your clearsightedness is creepy, if I may say so. I cannot even guess how you have found out...”

The crown prince sighed and looked depressed.

In a more gentle voice, Sansa asked: “Have you ever talked to Ser Jaime about it?”

Tommen's head snapped up and his green eyes became steely.

“I may have been sired by someone else, but King Robert is my father!” he hissed, making his stance clear.

Arya was still trying to work out all the implications and was totally shocked when she realised what the two were actually talking about.

Sansa inclined her head and answered: “I had gleaned as much. But one thing doesn't necessarily exclude the other.”

Tommen's hands clenched when he shot back: “I once saw them. Him and her. I had been playing hide and seek with Myrcella. Was ensconced in a cupboard. Didn't make a peep, back then or later. This moment when you can't even scream, can't even whisper “no”... Well. You see: I only have a father left – and that is King Robert. And there's still Myrcella, of course. Not to forget... a few unknown half brothers, by the looks of it.”

“Did the Hand know about the affair? I mean... your mother's affair.”

“Pfft! No. Would have run to my father right away. But I've got the feeling that he had gotten an inkling right before his death. And perhaps... the Queen had noticed THAT.”

Sansa side-eyed the prince, simply uttered a non-committal “hmmm” and fidgeted with a pocket watch.

 

Arya's astonishment was growing by the minute. She finally understood why Tywin had engaged Sansa: if Cersei had her fingers in the murder of the Hand, because she was maintaining an incestuous relationship with her brother it could well blast the Lannister family to pieces!

The next moment, Arya took this insight to the next level: had the Old Lion suspected as much from the beginning – and had simply not informed them?

 

Meanwhile, Sansa kept on asking: “Prince Tommen, do you possibly know what else Lord Arryn was doing before his death? As the Hand as well as in private, I mean.”

The young man shrugged: “Father has already told you about the... the brothel tax. Otherwise, Lord Arryn was often worried about his son. He's sickly, you know. Apart from that, Lord Robert didn't get along with his wife well. Not much better than father and the queen, actually.”

Sansa breathed in, but remained silent.

 

Instead, Arya asked after a moment: “Did you know the dead duelists?”

“Not really. Baronet Clegane a little; I've seen him a few times at court – but he didn't inspire me to want to get into closer contact with him.”

“I do get your meaning, Prince Tommen,” Arya affirmed.

The youngster stopped, looked at them both and begged: “You won't tell anyone about my... origin, will you?”

Sansa sighed: “I hope it won't come to that. I've got the feeling that the king wouldn't take kindly to this particular truth.”

“No, he certainly wouldn't,” the prince agreed. “And it is as I said: he IS my father. The only father I want. He does have his flaws, but he does have a heart as well, even if it's sometimes fickle and superficial. Still, it's better than... anything that THEY have ever offered me.”

“What a tragedy for him,” Arya thought.

Sansa said simply: “I was a Lannister once. By marriage. I know what you mean.”

“I remember, Lady Sansa. My sincerest condolences. And my congratulations that you managed to escape the Lions' den.”

They both smiled wrily.

 

Next, Sansa looked at her pocket watch once more and went on: “Prince Tommen, it was kind of you to enlighten us about so many details. I hope you won't be cross with us, if I tell you that we have to go now. The investigations are time-consuming, and there are still a few other things to do today. Moreover, my sister is awaiting her husband at the railway station. As a loving man you'll surely understand.”

The prince blushed and smiled.

“Sure, Lady Sansa. I'm happy that I could be of help to you, and I'm looking forward to meeting you again.”

He took their hands and kissed them like a perfect gentleman.

Arya thought that he was a most remarkable young man.

So she said to him: “I'm looking forward to meeting you again as well. Only... can you possibly talk to the king about this... employment as his personal doctor?”

The prince coughed and blushed even more: “I fear that my father has made up his mind – and then, he's stubborn and can't be swayed. Apart from that, it's true to say that Maester Pycelle... well... you're certainly competent and more trustworthy. But I promise that I'll give it a try and talk to my father. Ladies.”

 

Prince Tommen bowed in an elegant way, despite his rather stout appearance. 

When he was walking back on the meandering garden paths Sansa and Arya followed him with their eyes.

“Sister?”

“Yes, Arya?”

“You know that I always wanted to be a doctor. That I wanted to have a full-time job. To go to work. Perhaps even to go up the ladder as a maester.”

A small smile was playing around the corners of Sansa's mouth when she finished Arya's thoughts: “But now, you're changing your opinion.”

Arya sniffed angrily and said: “I do feel the sudden need to make a baby with Gendry. The king wouldn't want to have a pregnant healer around him who might puke on him whenever she smells his beer evaporations. Which would be all the time and all over the place.”

Sansa looked at her and chuckled: “You know – I could live with the idea of becoming an aunt.”

Arya rolled her eyes and spat: “This palace with its inhabitants is maddening. Let's go!”


	17. Same day, fifteen minutes later, King's Landing, opulent Lannister carriage

She had never been prone to luxury, despite the wealthy surroundings of her childhood, but for once, Arya allowed to indulge in the soft, velvety crimson padding of the Lannister coach and snuggled into a cushion.

Sansa was looking out of the window, at the fleeting prospects of King's Landing's bustling streets, and was listening to the rattle of swift wheels on cobbled stones.

 

“So it looks as if Queen Cersei has poisoned Prime Minister Arryn,” Arya offered.

Her sister cast her a surprised glance and asked: “What makes you think that?”

“But isn't that clear?” Arya blurted out. “She's a nasty person, she had to lose most from the Hand uncovering her affair, she could have gotten the poison from Maester Pycelle, and she would have been powerful enough to arrange the murder of the duelists.”

Sansa smiled forebearingly.

“Ah, sister, while these are certainly valid ideas you must look at all the details and the bigger picture. You say that Cersei had to lose most, but that isn't true. Think of Tommen and his claim to the throne, his claim to be Robert's son and his wish to get a chance with young Lady Shireen. He wouldn't have access to any of that, if his mother's incestuous treason were made public. And what about Lord Tywin? What would he have said to Lord Arryn uncovering the dirty family secrets? Moreover, he's – if I may say so – more intelligent than either Ser Jaime or his daughter. Apart from that: we haven't found out yet where the poison has really come from, we haven't investigated in the details of the brothel tax that was about to be introduced, and we haven't met our aunt yet.”

Arya blew up her cheeks.

“Pah! Tommen is a friendly, young lad – and Lord Tywin has extra engaged us to find out the truth.”

Sansa, however, was still sceptical.

“Tommen is more than meets the eye. I thought you had noticed. He is a court product, and he is in love for the first time. People have killed for less than that in history. And Lord Lannister? Why, he knows exactly that it's easier to control an enemy, if you've got him – or her – right under your nose. He may think that it's easier to control our knowledge, if he can observe our investigations... and maybe, he can get rid of us more easily, if necessary. So yes, Cersei might be the culprit, but there may still be a dozen others. Only when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”

 

After that little discussion, they both brooded in silence for a couple of minutes.

Then, Sansa spoke up again: “There is another point that makes me curious.”

“What is it, sister?”

“Why is HE,” Sansa nodded to the front of the coach, “still a simple coachman for the Lannisters although he's the heir of a lord's title now? Or isn't he?”

To be honest, Arya was only mildly interested in that topic, so she shrugged.

“Don't know. Do you think it matters in our case?”

“That remains to be seen. After all, it was his brother who got killed in that duel.”

“Do you think it was him?”

“Let's not delve in premature assumptions again. We may still find out. What's more important: I've got to carry out some investigations without you tonight. And you've got to refresh yourself, so you look your best part when you meet Gendry. Let's see... you still have got one hour and a half, which means you better hurry up.”

Arya grinned. For her, one hour and a half was still plenty of time, as neither she nor Gendry were interested in her sporting elaborate make-up or complicated dresses and female accessories. But while she didn't care about these points, of course she was all the more excited about finally seeing her husband again. Sitting still was becoming more and more difficult, and if it had helped she would have stopped at once and taken the next cab to the railway station. However, this wouldn't cause the train to arrive any sooner, so she could accompany Sansa to Lannister Mansion and get spruced up just as well.


	18. Same day, fifteen minutes later, King's Landing, Lannister Mansion, dining room

Arya came down for a quick snack and entered the room after having enjoyed a bath. A servant had also put an emerald dress onto her bed while she had been away with Sansa at Buckingham Keep. Arya didn't know the elegant robe, but judging by the expensive materials – intricate brocade, shot through with a few golden threads, golden Myrish lace and golden buttons – it had been sewn for a female Lannister. Surely Myrcella. A castaway robe. The cut was a tad old-fashioned, even Arya could see it, but she didn't care about the age of the dress.

What bothered her much more was the all too upfront cleavage. If her other clothes had not been so grubby, and if she had had any personal pieces for changing she wouldn't have put on this dress. Frustratedly, she was fumbling the seam of her cleavage and was trying to pull it up, but to no avail. Damned Lord Tywin! That was surely his doing, to give her such a horrible dress!

 

Finally, she looked up and into the dining room... and had to find out to her embarrassment that she wasn't alone. Tyrion was sitting at the table, a plate with some steaming delicacies in front of him – but he had forgotten about his food and was staring at her, his usually talkative mouth hanging open wordlessly for once.

At the side of the table, there was a young dandy, perhaps one of the Imp's cronies; he had dull, short brown hair, bushy sideburns and a moustache; moreover, he was wearing Lannister colours, too: yellow breeches, a golden waistcoat with purple embroidery that was so opulent that Lord Tywin couldn't possess a more impressive vest, and the outfit was completed with brown, shiny leather shoes and a green, silken tie that was bound in a complicated, but perfect knot.

Arya thought that there was something faintly familiar about the young man, but she didn't really care, because she was busy calling the goggling Imp to the carpet: “Lord Tyrion, it's most impolite to gaze at a woman as if she were chattel. And if your stare gets any more intense your bulging eyes might fall out. Wouldn't pity you for it, though.”

The Halfman closed his mouth, cleared his throat and spoke up: “Ah, the Stranger take me, but Lady Arya, I didn't mean to insult you. It's just that you're looking so beautiful. Stunning!”

Arya sighed: “Spare me your flatteries, they're not necessary.”

“But it's the truth!” Lord Tyrion insisted, and, in fact, he even seemed to be indignant now.

Arya simply waved her hand dismissively and said: “Yes, sure, whatever. I'm just here for a quick snack, and then, I'll be off to the station.”

“I see, Lady Arya,” the Imp uttered and flashed her her an ambiguous grin. “But before you leave – let me please introduce you to Ser Alain DeStone.”

Unnerved, Arya held out her hand, and the dandy indicated a kiss.

To her chagrin, the Imp was stifling some giggles now.

Huffing, she turned to the sideboard where the food had been laid out. She put some strawberries, a chunk of cheese and a roll on a dessert plate.

In her back, she heard some more subdued sounds of levity at the table, and she started to bristle in earnest now. Stupid party lions!

 

When she turned around her look fell on the dandy's waistcoat again. It really looked like one of Lord Tywin's, come to think of it. Arya furrowed her brow.

The gears in her head started to turn. Why on earth were the two men so damned exhilarated? And where had she seen this Alain DeStone before?

Arya looked at his face.

Saw the blue, smiling eyes.

Now, it was Arya's jaw that dropped down in surprise.

“Sansa! But... but...”

The two people at the table burst into fits of laughter, and Lord Tyrion slapped his short, deformed thighs. A tear was streaming down his cheek.

 

Arya couldn't believe it.

Sansa had disguised herself so well that not even her sister had been able to recognise her.

“Gods...,” Arya breathed. “You cut off your wonderful hair! And the colour... And the beard... But whose clothes – don't tell me they're Lord Tywin's!”

The Imp hopped off his chair and clapped her on the back.

“If it's a consolation to you – had I not been filled in about her intentions I wouldn't have recognised her either. Yes, the hair – what a pity. A real sacrifice. And with regard to the clothes... well, she couldn't wear mine, and Sansa is a tall woman indeed, while my Lord Father is an impressive, but also wiry, lean man.”

“Does he... does he know?”

The Imp shrugged off the question.

“He's got so many clothes – he won't notice.”

Arya hiccuped in shock.

“Why this masquerade? Is this truly necessary?”

Sansa became serious, and she answered: “There are some places in King's Landing that are definitely safer for men than for women. The Harbour. The Street of Silk. Those are the places where I have to carry out my investigations tonight. And while I'll never look like a commoner I want at least to be on the safe side when it comes to my sex. By the way – Tyrion knows the Street of Silk and will accompany me. Moreover, we'll take the Lannister carriage, so our coachman can help to keep us safe as well.”

 

Arya shook her head. It was incredible. All of a sudden, she and her sister had switched the roles: the tomboy had turned into a lady and vice versa.

“Tomorrow, I'll wear my trousers again!” she swore to herself.

Aloud, she commented dryly: “Ah, yes, sure – Lord Tyrion as a connoisseur of the Street of Silk. Yes, that rings a bell.”

Tyrion coughed, and Arya went on: “But Sansa, do you really have to go there? A brothel is no place for you.”

However, her sister looked determined.

“I have to find some answers.”

Arya sighed. After all, Sansa was a grown woman and had to make her own choices.

With quick movements, she wolfed down her snack and mumbled: “I'll send the coach back as soon as I've arrived at the station. Good luck to the two of you.”

Then, she said goodbye and stalked out of the room.

 

When she arrived at the carriage, scarred Sandor Clegane was already waiting for her... and when his eyes fell on her opulent dress and her visible cleavage, a houndish grin spread across his face.

Arya pointed at the huge coachman and chided him: “You! Don't you dare make a comment, or I'll add a few scars to your ugly face with my scalpel.”

And without further ado, she turned to the carriage door, stomped over to it and clambered in – which wasn't half as graceful as usually, due to the skirts.

“I'll never, ever wear a dress again!” she hissed in frustration.

Only the wonderful prospect of finally meeting Gendry helped her to regain her composure.


	19. Same day, 1 hour later, King's Landing, King's Cross Main Railway Station, platform 3

An eyewitness might not have noticed her nervousness at first sight, but now and again she meddling with the seam of her cleavage – and was thus only drawing unwanted male attention. She heard a few whistles and catcalls from a few sooty workers, and once Arya even felt a groping hand at her bottom. In that moment, she was relieved that some laced ladies' boots with sharp heels had come along with the dress she was wearing, and a second later, the assailant was hopping up and down on one foot and was cursing in pain.

Without turning around, Arya commented in a treacherously gentle tone: “The next time you try to fondle me you'll be holding some far more precious parts.”

After that incident, she was left in peace.

But damn, the train was five minutes late! Where was Gendry?

 

Finally, the puffing steel wyvern crawled into the station and came to a screeching halt.

Arya could see her husband behind a small locomotive window at once.

Since King's Cross was a terminal station she had positioned herself in a strategically useful point: right behind the final gantry; and there, she started to wave wildly and to bounce up and down like a ball in a most unladylike way – at least she did so until she realised that her some... female regions were bouncing up and down, too, and nearly spilling free from her corset.

Steam hissed, and she hissed along in frustration.

A moment later, Gendry descended from the driver's cab. He was wearing brown a leather apron, and of course he was sooty all over... and at the same time alluring as all seven hells. Between the apron and the opening of his lumberjack shirt Arya could spot a tiny bit of curly, black chest hair, his rolled-up sleeves revealed his strong, muscled arms, and instantaneously, her heart ran amok from sheer arousal.

Gods, she could barely wait to have her husband for herself!

 

Gendry walked the few steps into her direction and goggled at her indecent clothing.

“Don't you say a thing about this horrible dress!” Arya demanded when she saw him take in a breath to comment her look.

So Gendry started to grin from ear to ear – and his unnerving smirk was just as telling as any statement. Arya punched him against the chest, and Gendry leaned over with a chuckle, kissed her straight on the mouth and murmured against her lips: “I missed you, Doctor Watson.”

When he retreated he chuckled even more and produced a rugged piece of cloth.

He explained: “Oh, I'm making you dirty. Here, wipe your face and hands. We must be careful with that dress. It's only borrowed I'd wager, and we don't want to return it as a grubby rag. But it's good you've come here. I only have to stay here for a little longer. The locomotive has to be cleaned up, you know? There's still slag that needs to be removed from the oven. And then I've got to take a shower before I can risk to touch you.”

In response to this Arya got straight to the point: “Do you have individual cabins with doors for showering here?”

Gendry threw back his head and laughed, so that the strands of his dark, thick hair teetered.

“You naughty little minx! Up to some mischief again?”

Arya pretended to pout: “ You bet! I haven't seen my husband for far too long!”

Gendry stifled some more sounds of levity and pointed with his thumb: “Over there is the wing for the employees. The showers are there. Meet me in half an hour. And better bring along a good snack from the pie seller in the waiting room. I'm starving – for you as well as for some hearty food. And I guess I need some food to gather some strength first.”

Arya grinned and saluted. She was happy. That was the good thing about Gendry: He was warm-hearted and uncomplicated. And he had a healthy appetite.


	20. Same day, 2 hours later, King's Landing, terrace of a bistro near King's Cross Main Railway Station

The aether street lamps cast their soft orange light, and moths were swarming around the bulbs by the dozens. On the table, there was a flickering blue candle like on all the other ones. Moreover, colourful paper lanterns were dangling from the wooden beams of the terrace and helped to illuminate the tepid evening.

 

They attracted various indignant glances, but Arya didn't care whether it was proper to sit on Gendry's knees and to lean against his torso while eating a warm, flat cake with sour cream and spring onions on top together. On a second plate, there were also smoked little sausages, grilled garlic mushrooms, baked beans and a portion of cooked spelt in a brown sauce.

Gendry was wolfing down the food, which was no surprise.

Arya smiled against his neck. Her muscles felt heavy and relaxed. This wasn't a surprise either.

Her memories trundled back into the past. How she had taught her husband everything she knew about lovemaking. They had never talked about whether he had been a maid or just inexperienced when they had lain together for the first time. It didn't matter – and what he sometimes still lacked in... technical perfection he more than made up with enthusiasm, a damn attractive body and endurance.

 

“What are you grinning about, Arya?” Gendry asked above her head and nuzzled her hair with his nose between two big bites from his flat cake.

“Oh, I've missed my husband... and certain aspects of our wedded life. But now, I'm a happy woman again.”

Gendry chuckled and said with a smirk: “Now that you're talking about it – I couldn't help but notice your state back at the station, too.”

Arya thumped his chest and chuckled as well.

A moment later, however, her husband became serious: “Will you tell me why you and Sansa had to leave Oldtown so hurriedly?”

Arya sighed: “Lord Lannister tasked Sansa with a special mission, and it was necessary to accompany her. It's all a big secret, and I mustn't talk about it.”

She could more feel than see Gendry wrinkle his brows.

He sounded annoyed when he uttered: “Won't the Lannisters let Sansa finally live in peace? Your sister has been through enough. And so have you, by the way.”

“They're the Lions of Casterly Rock. What do you expect?” Arya retorted, sarcastic as ever, and kissed Gendry's pulse point, because that spot was certainly more pleasant than their topic. She also tried to steel herself for the next subject matter.

Meanwhile, her husband commented: “I know. I shouldn't have asked. Poor Sansa. What are they going to do to her this time?”

 

Arya thought of what the king was about to do to her by appointing her to be his personal maester; so she breathed in and addressed what was weighing her down: “Gendry... there's something that I'd like to discuss with you.”

“So serious, my wild wolf?”

Gendry lifted her chin with his hand, and she looked him in his dark, warm eyes.

She swallowed and stated: “I don't want to take moon tea any more.”

For a moment, Gendry simply gaped at her.

Then, he managed to say: “Whoa. Now that's a piece of news. I mean... you're saying you want to have a child with me?”

“Uuuh, that's the essence of it, yes.”

Gendry needed a few more seconds... but then, a radiant smile appeared on his face, and he looked so overjoyed that Arya started to have a guilty conscience for never having considered founding a family before... and for changing her opinion due to practical reasons.

Gendry kissed her heatedly and murmured: “I love you!”

At the same time, it seemed to dawn on him that something was amiss with her.

 

“Arya, what has happened? Why are you talking about having a baby now? Is that just a pretext for something else?”

Arya flinched. Damn. Her husband knew her too well.

So she explained: “There was indeed a trigger for this idea – but my feelings about all of this are sincere, I swear.”

Gendry looked at her darkly.

“All right. I want some details now.”

So Arya told him of the king's decision – and of him being a royal bastard.

 

When she ended her report her husband was accordingly shocked. So she didn't rush him and knew that he had to process the information.

It looked rather absurd, but Gendry simply started to munch on the food again; however, Arya understood that he didn't realise what he was doing and that this was a merely mechanical process to support the gears that were turning in his head.

 

Some ten to fifteen minutes later, their meal came to an end. Arya paid the waiter, and they rose.

Gendry murmured: “There is a park close by. With a bench.”

Arya nodded and followed him to the stretch of green.

 

They sat down.

Gendry was still deep in thought.

“There's something I need to tell you, too,” he declared.

“Oh? What is it?”

“It's about my job,” Gendry said. “You may have heard that a brand new locomotive has been created: an aether locomotive. It's a technical revolution, you see, because it's the first one that isn't run on coal. The maiden voyage is going to take place soon. And I have applied to be the driver on that voyage. There are some other aspirants, but I'll hear about the decision soon. It would be an incredible honour, if I was chosen for this task.”

 

At once, Arya was thrilled: “Oh, how wonderful! Yes, I can understand that you want to be this driver! I'll keep my fingers crossed for you.”

Gendry smiled warmly, though he remained serious.

“Thank you for your unwavering support, Arya. It means so much to me. YOU mean so much to me. And if we could have a family... I'd love it. I never wanted to interfere with your work, and I wanted to give you some years before I'd have asked you about having a baby, but now... An unruly little girl like you – that would send me to an early grave, but I'd die a happy man.”

He smirked provokingly, and Arya punched his arm and laughed. She felt lighthearted.

 

Yet, Gendry turned thoughtful once more after just a few seconds.

“Arya, I'll need some time to ponder the new situation. Me being the... the king's... And I have to leave the capital in the early morning with the next train back to Oldtown, so I'll need some sleep. I fear I can't stay with you in a pension tonight, much as I'd like to do so. I'll sleep in the dormitory of the railroaders' hostel behind the station. Please, I can see you're disappointed, but I need some time for myself tonight. But I promise that we'll have a better time when I return to King's Landing. That'll be in three and a half days. I'll be arriving with the overnight train, and then, I'll have two free days.”

 

Arya sighed. She tried to be sensible, but her heart was heavy nevertheless.

With a forced smile she asked: “Can we at least go to the Direwolf Pub now and have a brandy?”

Gendry sported a wry grin and said: “Oh, I could do with some booze now. Let's go.”

 

In the end, it was nearly midnight, when a swaying Gendry stopped a cab for her, crushed her against his broad chest, kissed her goodbye like a starving man and murmured into her ear: “Can't wait to meet my wild wolf in the shower again, do you know that?”

Arya giggled, cupped his backside for a moment – happy that dense nightly fog shielded them off from sight – and answered: “And I can't wait to soap you again.”

“If you keep up this enthusiasm you'll be with child sooner than you can say “direwolf”.”

“That's my intention, Gendry.”

“Naughty minx.”

“Stubborn bull.”

They both laughed, kissed one last time, and a mere minute later, the cart was rolling into the foggy darkness, back to Lannister Mansion. At once, Arya wished for the three and a half days to elapse at once. She couldn't wait to be reunited with her husband.


	21. Same day, 2 hours later, King's Landing, Lannister Mansion, bedroom

Arya was turning from one side to the next. She was missing Gendry next to her – now that she had met him in King's Landing even more than before. Moreover, many thoughts about her future were swirling in her head. So it was no wonder that sleep wasn't coming to her yet, although she knew she'd need her wits about her with the dawn of the new day.

 

At some point, she pricked up her ears, because she heard steps in the corridor. Two people, as far as she could make out. Then, there was a stifled and rather drunk giggle.

Arya sat bolt upright in her bed.

Sansa!?

Was everything all right with her?

For a moment, there was a heavy silence in the corridor. Next, Sansa's guest room door opened and closed again.

Arya relaxed.

Her sister seemed to be all right. Should she sneak over and ask her about her investigations in the evening?

She had just lifted the blanket and was about to rise...

… when there was a female sigh next door.

Arya stopped dead.

She heard the creaking of a bed.

What in the name of the old gods and the new...!?

Another sound, something between a sigh and a moan.

 

Arya gaped into the darkness and couldn't believe her ears. She knew that Sansa and Tyrion had been on a... delicate mission in the lascivious parts of King's Landing, but she would have never thought that the two could get inspired and end up in bed together!

After all, a major aspect of their disastrous marriage had been that Sansa had felt under pressure to produce an heir while not being attracted to Tyrion in a physical sense. Had it something to do with the fact that Sansa was so drunk that she didn't care any more?

Arya rubbed her forehead. Well, her sister was old enough. If she wanted to make a mistake it was her choice and nothing to interfere with. Sansa had not meddled with Arya's mistakes after her return from abroad either.

 

However, no more than two minutes later, Arya was getting truly annoyed. Why on earth were the walls so thin here? Well, she could answer that question herself: thin walls meant knowledge, knowledge meant power, and the Lannisters were addicted to power.

The problem was that Arya would have preferred to sleep, rather than to listen to Sansa's shaky gasps and little moans, or the creaking of the bed, even if she was happy for her sister that she was obviously enjoying herself so much.

Another point was that Arya knew the difference between a wild, but short-lived hailstorm and permanent, soft rain. What was going on next door clearly belonged to the latter category, and it was likely that these activities would go on for hours.

 

Damn.

Arya bit her lips.

 

Another two disturbing minutes, and she reached a decision. She rose, tiptoed to her clothes – thankfully, Gendry had brought some of her private stuff along – and dressed in simple trousers and a plain shirt she wore in her free time at home.

Next, she sneaked out of the room and descended the stairs, heading for the Lannister library. She had resolved to read a few pages and to sleep on the sofa there. Sure, the servants would be shocked in the morning to find her there, but oh, well.

 

When Arya opened the ornate, massive wooden door she was surprised: there was still some aether light switched on in the room. At first, she thought that a scatterbrained servant had forgotten to extinguish the lamp, but a moment later, she found out that she was wrong.

 

“What are you doing here, and at this time of the night?”

Lord Tywin was there behind a lectern desk, and by the look of it, he had been studying some kind of book or scripture.

For a moment, Arya was tempted to ball her hands in frustration. This night wasn't going at all the way she wanted it to be!

“I can't sleep, my lord, so I intended to read a little. Perhaps to sleep on the sofa.”

“If your bed isn't comfortable enough – I can offer you mine.”

 

Arya stiffened.

Lord Tywin's voice had sounded casual, void of any emotions, like so often. He wasn't even looking at her, but appeared to be reading his text again.

“How dare you propose such a thing!? I'm a married woman!” she hissed.

Lord Tywin's retort was imperturbable: “Being married isn't an obstacle for many women.”

Arya was shocked to the bone.

This was the epitome of impudence!

 

She had some difficulties to breathe evenly when she ground out: “Just in case you have forgotten: I turned down your proposal once – and I did so for a reason. My opinion hasn't changed since.”

To her astonishment, Lord Tywin looked up now and into the distance.

No, he hadn't forgotten.

 

Arya heard herself ask: “I've always wondered: why did you propose to me in the first place? Family relations? A possible claim to Winterfell? The strategic weakening of other families? Influence? Riches? Passion? Perhaps even my cleverness, because you thought it would suit your intelligence?”

Lord Tywin looked angry now.

“Would it make any difference, if you knew?”

It sounded like a rhetorical question, but Arya glared at him and said: “Perhaps it would. I could understand a few things better. Please tell me: why did you propose to me back then?”

There was cold ire radiating from his eyes, and his jaws worked.

Finally, he spat: “For every reason.”

Arya was confused.

“That's a tad vague.”

“No, it's not! It's encompassing.”

 

It took another moment for Arya to decipher the full meaning of this answer – and then, she felt more than a trifle light in the head.

“For every reason” – only Lord Tywin of Lannister was able to clad three magical words into an even broader context with three other words.

 

And now, it was his time to retaliate: “Why did you say “no”? At the time, I was under the impression that you were... fond of me.”

Arya's mouth became a grim line. It had been directly after her return, she had been through so much shit, she had been starving for any kind of positive feeling and for finding out what it meant to be Arya again, Arya, a young woman grown. They had been snowed in in Harrenhal for a few weeks, and Sansa had solved her first important case by finding out that the Harrenhal ghost she had been called for had been an undead lord named Beric Dondarrion. With Sansa's help the corpse of the poor man had been discovered and laid to rest, so that the ghost had found peace, too.

 

But Arya – there had been no peace for her. She had been addicted to Lord Tywin at the time like Sansa had been addicted to opium. Both sisters had started to end their misery at the same time, and they had helped each other to overcome their individual problems. It had also furthered Arya's motivation for her medical studies.

After she had rejected the proposal and had met Gendry again she had always known that her decisions had been right. Gendry was good for her, and she adored and loved him with all her might.

 

So Arya looked at Lord Tywin, breathed in and out and said: “I needed peace at that time – and you couldn't have given me peace.”

The man behind the lectern desk snorted.

“Peace is an illusion. There may be times of armistice, but nothing more. And it would be better for you to understand this.”

Arya, however, was defiant and shot back: “In that case I have only ever known armistice with my husband. Which comes close to actual peace, I'd say.”

 

Lord Tywin simply shook his head as if she were a naïve little child.

Arya grinned in her sarcastic way and uttered: “Anyway. I start to understand now why you accepted Sansa's divorce and why you supported my studies.”

“You're wrong. I didn't accept the divorce. But allowing you both more freedom was kind of an... investment. And it's starting to pay off now. Sansa may not carry the name “Lannister” any more, but she's working for the family again, and we'll see what will come of it. And you – I've heard that you're about to become the king's personal maester. Congratulations.”

 

Arya's eyes widened.

“Did YOU arrange my nomination for this position?”

“No. But I supported the king's decision when I heard of it. This is a unique chance for your career.”

“Neither you nor the king asked me whether I was interested in the job!” Arya called out, and she was furious.

Lord Tywin stayed cool and aloof when he answered: “The way I understand it you want to be accepted as a female doctor and you want to give other women the opportunity to follow you in your tracks. You won't achieve this by treating the rabble. You have to aim for the top ranks. Everything comes at a prize. Being the king's personal healer is yours. And you'll have to live with it like I have to live with your “no”.”

 

Finally, Arya was speechless. There was no intelligent reply that would come to her mind, so she simply tried to change the topic, and she grabbed at the next best thought that occurred to her: “Speaking of your future plans – what do you intend to do with the Hound? He's Baron Gregor Clegane's heir.”

“I know.”

 

Arya was gaping again.

“What!? You know about him? About his heritage?”

Lord Tywin pinched his bridge with his fingers and sighed.

“He's like your sister, you know. Running away from problems, having claims for an elevated social position, but choosing to do humble service jobs for someone else instead, and always sniffing after other people's heels.”

“Sansa isn't doing humble jobs by solving mysterious criminal cases!”

“You tell yourself that. But I can tell you that people see a difference between a rich Lannister noblewoman and a divorced woman, who's doing a commoner's job neither befitting her status nor her sex.”

 

Arya was fuming now.

“This is YOUR opinion. You're a narrow-minded, arrogant blockhead!”

“You're saying that to the very man who supported your studies and your career. Which only tells us again that the one who needs to yell is already on the losing side.”

“I don't need to listen to this rubbish!” Arya growled, turned around and stalked out of the library.

 

She was relieved when she realised that Lord Tywin wasn't following her.

But whereto now?

Spontaneously, she directed her steps towards the stables. This was a lost night, but perhaps the horses would at least help her to calm down again.

A few minutes later, she sank onto a heap of straw in an empty box and felt hollow. Exhausted.

 

The occasional snickers of the horses, their smell and the metallic sounds of their hooves had the desired effect. Apart from that, she had already slept in much worse places than this one, so she felt comfortable enough.

Her eyes grew heavy and she dozed off.

 

At some point, she was woken again by a dark, raspy voice: “Seven hells, if that isn't the little wolf bitch. What are you doing here? And why this shabby appearance? You look like shit.”

“You mean as ugly as you, Clegane? In case you haven't noticed: I've been sleeping here. And I intend to stay in this place. I like the horses.”

 

He disappeared from sight for a moment and came back with a blanket.

“Against the cold.”

The next moment, he was wrapping her tightly into the piece of cloth, although she was protesting.

 

What was more, Arya wrinkled her nose and spat: “Yuck! You're smelling of perfume and wine and sex. Did you lie with a whore?”

The Hound stiffened; his eyes were stormy and his voice deadly when he rumbled: “One more word, and I'll bash in your pretty face.”

 

Her time abroad had told Arya when a situation was becoming dangerous, and since a harlot wasn't worth a beating she kept her mouth shut.

The Hound grunted, rose again and walked away with his long strides.

After this episode, Arya was wide awake for a while, but finally, she managed to calm down and to fall asleep again.


	22. Next morning, King's Landing, Lannister Mansion, dining room

Arya had rabbit eyes when she entered the dining room for breakfast the next morning. The stable boys who had hastened to prepare Lord Tywin's elegant carriage for him at an early hour had been loud enough to raise the dead from their sleep. Yes, Arya had trudged back to her bedroom and had slept some more, so it was already quite late, but she was still suffering from a considerable lack of sleep.

 

Well, at least she wasn't alone in that respect. Tyrion and Sansa were sitting at the breakfast table, and they both looked tired as well. The Imp had bloodshot eyes, but looked rather content, and even Sansa with her good looks seemed to have heavy eyes, and her short hair was still odd, unaccustomed – but at the same time, she emanated a happiness Arya had not noticed since the two girls had left Winterfell. Since before their family had been murdered.

And now Sansa appeared to be alive in a way Arya had not dared to hope for.

Arya arched her eyebrow. It wasn't as if she wasn't happy for her sister, but it was beyond her what might have happened that could have led to Sansa bonding with her ex-husband.

 

“Good morning,” she simply offered and yawned.

“Arya! There you are!” Sansa chimed in a merry voice. “Did you have a good evening with Gendry?”

“Yes, yes, he sends his warmest regards. He has applied to drive the first aether locomotive on its maiden journey.”

“Oh, how wonderful! Let's hope he'll get the job.”

Tyrion spoke up: “The aether locomotive is one of father's pet projects, because he thinks that this could be a splendid way to earn more money in the aether sector. He's more than pleased that the construction phase is coming to an end.”

 

Arya didn't want to talk about Lord Tywin, so she simply asked: “And you? Did you have a successful evening?”

Sansa blushed and answered: “It was interesting in many ways.”

Arya could only think: “Sounds like the understatement of the year.”

Meanwhile, her sister continued: “We were at the port and tried to find out where the poison for Lord Arryn might have come from. It was like finding a needle in a haystack, so it cannot come as a surprise that we weren't successful. Things got more interesting in the Street of Silk. For two exact reasons. Tyrion and me, we investigated which brothel belongs to whom and who would suffer most and how much from the kind of “pleasure tax” Lord Arryn had in mind. Well, the simple truth is that Alayaya's may be the most renowned brothel, but it would have been excluded from the act and would have been put under royal protection – so the financial damage would have been the greatest for Petyr Moriarty. That was the first interesting finding, but there's something more we find rather worrying. There's a lot of talk going on in the taverns and alehouses and brothels. There's no doubt that people are discontent with the government, and they're discussing a weird new political concept called “Electocracya”. The idea behind is that the political leader should be elected by the people every few years. That it shouldn't be a king who has inherited the throne. People seem to be increasingly fond of this idea.”

Tyrion snorted: “I want to see that. Many commoners don't even know how to read and write. How should they be able to participate in politics? Anyone who knows how to manipulate people could cause them to make the most foolish decisions. The people would think they're in control for a day or to, but the outcome would likely be chaos – and in the end, there would just be a new powerful man, no matter whether his title would be “king” or something else.”

 

Arya wrinkled her nose. She remembered her lord father talking to his subjects and heeding their thoughts. In her opinion, it had been a good thing to listen to the commoners as well – still, her father had been the lord and had made the decisions in the end. It wasn't as if everyone had always supported all his choices, but Lord Holmes had been respected by an overwhelming majority. Well... not by the young man who had been his ward...

Anyway, things were different here. The king didn't care about the poor people's opinions. So it was no wonder that they were more likely to think they needed a political system where they could have a say as well. Tyrion was certainly right that most people who didn't even have a basic education didn't have a clue about politics either, and that might become dangerous, but at the same time she could understand that they still wanted to be heard and to be taken seriously.

 

“I see,” Arya murmured. “These are indeed some noteworthy points. But you haven't found out anything that is directly connected to the murder case, as far as I can see.”

Sansa cocked her head and smiled with a yawn that she tried to cover with her hand.

“In fact, there IS something interesting that we want to find out more about. This Petyr Moriarty – he's not in the capital at the moment. And guess where he is.”

“Tell me.”

“At the Glen.”

 

Arya gaped.

“You mean... where aunt Lysa is?”

“Exactly.”

At that moment, Tyrion added: “I know the fellow. He's capable of making a coin and of maintaining a human network. Dangerous, this one, if you ask me. From a moderate background, and as arrogant as ambitious. And as an owner of various brothels that have made him rich you can be sure he's ruthless as well – otherwise, he wouldn't have survived in the horizontal sector.”

“So what does it mean for us, and what are our next plans now?” Arya wanted to know.

 

Sansa sighed: “We'll be intensifying our experiences with Targaryen Airlines, Arya, you and me. We'll be taking a hired dragon to the Vale. I've already conferred with Lord Lannister via the air tube system. He's willing to pay these expenses – and then, we can be back in the capital on time for your next meeting with Gendry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm awfully sorry, but I won't be able to update this story regularly over the next weeks. Real life calling.


	23. Two hours later, air, dragon's passenger cabin, Rhaegal class

“I still don't like flying any better. To be honest, I was hoping to be able to take a nap, Sansa, but no chance of that.”

“Yes, the flapping of the wings, the dragon scales and everything – it's unnerving. I hope we'll find a soft bed in the Glen. I'm so tired after yesterday's extensive investigations in the Harbour and in the Street of Silk.”

“Extensive investigations. Hmhm,” Arya uttered with an ironic undertone.

 

Sansa blushed and rearranged her little top hat although it wasn't necessary, what with her new hairstyle.

“Well, I got only back after midnight, so it was indeed a long evening, sister.”

“And what followed took even longer, didn't it?” Arya chuckled and winked.

 

Sansa straightened, answered: “Uh, that's private, dear.”

She got her weirwood pipe out of her bag and started to smoke, unwilling to say any more.

Arya, however, couldn't help herself and commented: “Mmmh, let's just say I was surprised you suddenly discovered something appealing behind his ugly façade. And in spite of his acid tongue. Well, I guess he used that tongue of his for some more positive things last night.”

Sansa was so red in the face now that with her normal hair colour it would have been barely discernible where her skin ended and the hair began. As it was, the dull, dark hue formed a weird contrast to the deep red shade of her skin.

 

In a polite voice, tainted by a whiff of annoyment, Sansa chided her: “Arya, did I ever dwell upon your intimacy in the past? Did I ask you about your meeting with Gendry yesterday?”

Arya simply laughed and shrugged: “Why so sensitive? There's nothing secretive about lust. It's natural. Gendry and me, we found a secluded spot and enjoyed ourselves as always. No need to be such a chicken.”

Sansa sighed, defeated: “Maybe I am a tad too sensitive, it's just my education. But I'm happy you had a good time with Gendry.”

“Aaah, education – you mean this thing that didn't work around me when I was a child? I can still remember how envious I was of your perfection, but today I'm happy about the way I am. Things are often so much less complicated, if you don't have to try to be a true lady all the time. Once your good reputation is completely in shambles you can lean back and relax. Think of the liberty you've had since your scandalous divorce. And now tell me – given that he associates with whores and not with private lovers... is he good?”

 

The next moment, Arya knew she had overstepped this time. Sansa looked at her in a strange way: somehow shocked, somehow incredulous, and there was an undercurrent of anger as well.

“Uh-oh, and I thought she was just opening up. I don't get it: she even accompanied him to a brothel – so why is she so touchy about his contacts to harlots?” Arya thought, confused.

Aloud, she said: “I'm sorry, if I've said something wrong, Sansa.”

“No... I guess... well, it's... just forget it, sister.”

Arya was surprised now: it was obvious Sansa tried to behave in a mature way, but somehow, she was hurt nevertheless. To be honest, she hadn't seen her older sister so vulnerable for ages.

As if to support this impression, Sansa started to rummage in her bag, fished out her deerstalker cap, exchanged it for her top hat, pulled it deep into her face – like a shield – and looked out of the cabin. Her slender fingers started to twitch as if they wanted to play a violin, instead of holding the still smouldering weirwood pipe.

Bad sign.

Arya was overcome by a wave of bad conscience and remained silent for the rest of the flight.

 

Finally, they arrived at the Glen. There was a big lake, and atop a mountain, there was a castle that looked as if a giant had stolen it right out of a fairy tale and had placed it where it was now: all white, slender, elegant turrets, ornaments – and this in addition to the beautiful scenery. The castle name had been “Eyrie” in the distant past, as Arya knew from her history lessons with her maester, but some decades before, a deranged lord had renamed it “New Eaglestone” and had changed the interior design in such a way that it added tremendously to the fairy-tale atmosphere.

Arya was sure that Sansa would have loved the castle as a child, would have found it romantic – but after all the Lannister opulence her sister wasn't overly interested in gold foil and the like any more.

 

Together, they disembarked the dragon at the airport and hired a coach to the castle. In former times, the ascent to the building would have been carried out with mules and on foot as the “Eyrie” had been nearly inaccessible; but a recent development named “aether hammers” had made it possible to create a way that was broad enough for carriages.

 

Arya wasn't particularly looking forward to getting to know their aunt. Sansa and her husband Tyrion had mostly lived in Casterly Rock while they had been married, and during their honeymoon in the capital their aunt had been elsewhere and hadn't crossed her sister's way. And Arya had been far away, in Braavos.

Anyway, their mother, Lady Catelyn, had always spoken well of her sister and had also entertained a correspondence with her, but when the girls' family had been murdered in cold blood she hadn't offered the tiniest bit of interest, let alone help.

Instead, it had been uncle Edmure, Lord Tully of Riverrun, and great-uncle Brynden, who had taken care of them for a while. The men had consoled them as best they had been able to after the trauma. But then, Lord Lannister had wanted Sansa for a match with his son Tyrion, and the abominable Bolton family had started to show some interest in Arya. As it was, uncle Edmure was a friendly man, but not a strong lord; he had given in to Lord Tywin's demands and had accepted the betrothal of Sansa and Tyrion. That had been the moment, when Arya had fled with great-uncle Brynden's temporary help, so that the second Holmes daughter wouldn't be sold away like cattle as well.

Still, you could say what you wanted: their male relatives had been friendly and had done their best, within their limits. Aunt Lysa, however, was... a nobody for them.


	24. About ninety minutes later, New Eaglestone, gatehouse

Access to the castle ground turned out to be easy enough – their brand new passports, organized and provided by Lord Tywin, proved their identity; and as nieces of Lady Lysa they couldn't be turned away by the guards without an explicit order to do so.

In the yard, they left the coach, which turned around and rolled away as soon as they had retrieved their baggage. And then, they were standing there... and apart from some side glances by a few busy servants the two women didn't get any attention. Nobody welcomed them.

Arya was baffled. She hadn't expected a warm welcome, but being ignored was the cherry on top of a cream pie. Well, a wormy cherry and a rancid cream pie.  
“Will you believe it?” Arya mouthed to her sister.

 

Sansa shook her head – and then, she had had enough of this treatment. She grabbed a haggard, elder man with a crooked nose, who was dressed like a house servant, by the sleeve.

“Good man, I know you've got your own tasks to do, but nobody is here to receive us, the nieces of Lady Lysa; and we're also here as emissaries of the Prime Minister, Lord Lannister. Our arrival has been overlooked by the officials, so please hasten and make sure that our aunt and the castellan are informed of our presence.”

The man had hesitated for the briefest moment, but no sooner did he hear the name “Lord Lannister” than he nodded and scuttled off, eyes wide in fear, to carry out Sansa's order. Somehow, it irked Arya that Lord Tywin was a key for certain locked doors, just because he was... well the way he was.

 

Nevertheless, they had to wait another full ten minutes, and Arya was about to have a controlled screaming fit then and there to ascertain that they were finally noticed; but just when she was about to suck in the air for this undertaking did an official figure make its appearance.

It was a heavy-set, bald, middle-aged man with a greying beard, and he nodded at them and greeted them with reserved politeness: “Welcome in New Eaglestone, ladies. My name is Lord Nestor Royce, and I am the castellan. Apologies for the late reception, but the young lord has fallen ill again, and we're all engaged in furthering Lord Robert's well-being. For the same reason, your aunt sends you an excuse for not being able to meet you right away. However, after the long voyage from the capital we assume you'll want to rest and to refresh yourselves for a while.”

 

As Sansa was better when it came to diplomatic language she spoke up: “We're worried to hear that Lord Robert is ill, and we can surely understand that you're busy now. However, it wouldn't have been necessary for you to leave the lord's side. We would have been content with a humble servant, who could have shown us the way until you and our aunt could spare us some time. We will be grateful for a pause and some refreshment though. What do you think – when will aunt Lysa be able to see us? And would it be possible to visit the sick?”

“I fear the young lord doesn't want to be seen at the moment. With regard to your aunt I cannot make any promises, because she is always most upset when her beloved son is suffering from an affliction, but I'll try and see whether she won't be able to meet you at dinner.”

“Thank you so much for your efforts, my lord.”

Sansa sounded like the perfect lady now, but Arya knew exactly that her older sister had just wrapped up the phrase “fuck you” in verbal silk, and she was finally able to smile again. Moreover, Arya was most impressed by all the non-verbal messages that had been exchanged.

On the one hand, Sansa had expressed her criticism in an elegant way.

On the other hand, it was clear as daylight that their aunt didn't want to see them, and young Robert's illness and his alleged unwillingness to meet them was a more than convenient pretext not to have to socialize any more with them than necessary. What a “loving aunt” indeed. Brrr.

 

Lord Nestor assigned them his own daughter Myranda to wait on them while they were refreshing themselves, likely as a way to make amends for the initial neglect of the arrivals. Myranda was a merry widowed woman, and Arya liked her better than her father at once.

While they were being led to their guest rooms Myranda chattered about the castle and told them tragic stories about Lord Lois, second of his name, who had given the castle its recent shape.

And what a shape it was! Arya knew how opulent Lord Tywin could be when he decided to show off his Lannister status – but it was nothing in comparison to this. The walls were bursting with frescoes, mosaics, gold foil and mother of pearl inlays; only the most precious wood had been used from everywhere around the world, there were white and pink marble flagstones, and ivory and ornamental metalwork could be found as well. Huge aether chandeliers illuminated the way. What would have been beautiful in smaller doses overloaded Arya's senses and made her dizzy.

 

In their rooms there were gigantic ebony four-posters with light blue curtains embroidered with hundreds of tiny silvery stars.

“Beautiful fancy work,” Sansa judged, and as an expert for needlework and aesthetics she knew even better how to assess the surrounding quality than Arya.

Myranda laughed: “It is, isn't it? The wood was shipped in from the Summer Isles. Very expensive, like everything. Ha, and with those huge beds one can easily wish for a lord to share it with.”

 

Sansa wrinkled her nose at the woman's lascivious outspokenness. In contrast to that, Arya wasn't fazed, of course. Still, she wasn't sure whether she'd want to share such a bed with Gendry. They didn't need luxury – they had made love on bales of hay, under a bush and in all other sorts of places, once even in a hired carriage (and the rattling of the cobblestones had been most stimulating)... They just enjoyed their lustful encounters wherever it suited them.

A warm, pulsating feeling started in Arya's her middle section, but Sansa was quick to distract her with the greatest possible turn-off: once the door had closed behind her back, she started to fiddle in a most aggressive way. She was literally screeching on her violin to express her frustration. The only thing Arya could do was to apply something she had luckily discovered on the lush bedside table: waxy earplugs.

 

Some ten minutes later, a bath was brought in, and a platter with food and a decanter with wine as well. As Arya wasn't fond of wine she asked for some ale, which Myranda handed her another few minutes later, while Arya was still scrubbing herself clean. It was a huge tankard, just right for a dry, thirsty throat after a dragon ride.

 

By then, the fiddling had stopped and as soon as her skin was dry (though her hair was not) Arya donned some clothes and walked over to her sister.

“Fancy a beer, sister?” she asked.

“How very good! And I've got some water here, Arya,” Sansa chimed. “We better shouldn't drink the wine. My nose has already told me that there is a weak narcotic in it. Not enough to knock us out right away, but something unobtrusive. If you don't know what to look for you might as well think you've just fallen asleep because you were tired after the voyage.”

 

Arya was shocked.

“How perfidious! Looks as if someone doesn't want us to find out certain things, if you ask me. Just what could it be? Do you think it may have something to do with our case? In my humble opinion, it's not far from a narcotic to poison.”

Sansa thoughtfully tapped her nose with her index finger.

“I agree that something is foul here, but we shouldn't come to any conclusions before we've seen how the land lies. And now, let's enjoy the digestible food and drink.”

“Don't you think there could be something in the rest as well?”

“Possible. But not likely. Most criminals are either too penurious or too simple-minded and only poison one item. And if it should be any different here we can at least tell we're dealing with a clever rascal.”  
“How very reassuring, Sansa,” Arya snorted.

 

Together, they tore into the food: garlic bread, onion soup, white beans in a rich, creamy herb sauce, and little pieces of spicy, grilled goat. The sisters found out that they were rather hungry, and the various dishes were simply delicious. So was the ale, which was dark and strong. They were sitting on the four-poster and talked animatedly until their bellies were full.

Eating in bed had a decadent quality, which was only fitting, given the surroundings.

After having finished their little feast, they leaned back and enjoyed the momentary peace in the room, looked at the canopy, exchanged memories about Sansa's first successful cases as a detective and focused on the good times they had had as sisters over the last few years.

Half an hour later, they were fast asleep.


	25. Next morning, New Eaglestone, Sansa's room

When Arya woke up the next morning she was confused at first, because Gendry's skin had become so soft. Confused, she reached around his body and wanted to stroke his hairy, muscled chest, just like she always liked to do when she woke up next to him.

But her hands met...

… boobs.

 

From one moment to the next, Arya sat up in bed, wide-eyed.

Oops.

She had been fondling her sister, who was looking up at her in bewilderment.

 

Though Arya normally wasn't a blushing one she did flush crimson now.

“Um, sorry, mistook you for Gendry in my sleep.”

“Oh. Oh, I see. Haha, good to know we're not turning into the Lannister twins. Gods, I'm just getting awake myself. I'm not accustomed to having someone next to me all night.”

Sansa shook her head like a wet wolf would shake out its fur, looked at the empty food plates from the previous evening and went on: “You didn't make it back to your room? Aha. I'm getting the feeling that I underestimated the person who drugged the wine – he or she must have tampered with the food as well, and it was so spicy that we didn't notice. So we are indeed dealing with someone intelligent.”

 

Her memories of the past evening were coming back to Arya, and she was quite shocked now.

“What a perfidious treatment! Do you think it was our aunt?”

“Aunt Lysa is focused on little Robert now. Even if she used his illness as a pretext not to meet us I don't think she'd have poisoned the food and drink herself.”

“Myranda Royce then?”

Sansa weighed her head.

“If she did it – it must have happened on somebody's orders. Even if she had a motive we don't know yet she'd need to have enough money for the narcotics as well as cunning. Moreover, you must keep in mind that we're basically the Prime Minister's emissaries. I don't think she'd come up with the idea of making us befuddled and drowsy on her own. Hmmm... If you don't mind we'll pretend to be unsuspecting of having been knocked out, sister.”

Arya nodded.

“All right, Sansa. I'm not too bad at acting, if I may say so.”

“Great. Let's see, if we can get some breakfast now. Normal breakfast, preferably. And perhaps we can already find out a few things we cannot ask our aunt personally.”

 

They rang a bell, and two or three minutes later, a merry Myranda Royce entered the room.

“Good morning, ladies! Did you have a good night?”

Sansa looked like an epitome of innocence: “Oh yes, a very good one, thanks. We still had a chat over our snack and fell asleep together, so we didn't make it for dinner to meet our aunt. I hope she wasn't angry.”

Myranda laughed: “Oh, I can imagine – the travelling must have made you tired. No, no, your aunt was so busy with the young lord that I doubt she would have liked to see you anyway. But I'll try to speak to her so that she'll arrange a meeting today.”

Sansa looked out of the castle window where rain was coming down in sheets and mused: “What a relief we don't have to travel today – you wouldn't even send a dog in front of the door in this nasty weather. I hope nobody else has to leave the castle today. It's certainly no day for hiking in the mountains.”

Myranda answered: “Indeed, it's not, Lady Sansa. Yes, I feel sorry for the kitchen staff that has to go and buy some fresh food down in the village. And Mister Moriarty even left the castle at the hour of the wolf when darkness made the slippery ways even more dangerous. I wish the trains to the capital didn't leave at the most impossible hours, but there you are.”

 

Arya pricked up her ears and asked in a casual tone: “This Mister Moriarty – I've never heard that name. Should we know the man?”

Myranda shrugged and replied: “Don't know. Lady Arryn claims him to be an old friend of her family, but if you've never heard of him... Well, I guess you'll have to ask your aunt about Mister Moriarty.”

At that moment, Sansa distracted the young woman with another question: “And the young Lord – is he better today? We've been quite worried to hear of his afflictions.”

“Yes, I think he's better today, but that can change again any moment.”

Myranda sighed and went on: “My father is always pestering me that I should strive to marry Lord Robert, because it would be such an improvement for the family. And sure, a lordship is all good and nice, but I ask you: what should I do with a lad barely in his teens and always ill? My late husband passed away right under my nose, and I don't want this to happen again.”

 

Arya was surprised by the woman's openness, and she couldn't imagine that there were any second thoughts behind the verbal ramblings.

 

Some twenty minutes later (after a short violin session on Sansa's side), they were served fresh rolls, honey, jam, eggs and some semolina pudding, together with steaming rosehip tea. This time, there was no narcotic in the food, and they enjoyed their breakfast. They also exchanged some meaningful looks about the fact that this Petyr Moriarty had left the castle when they had arrived. Perhaps, it had just been a coincidence. Perhaps, it had not.

 

After their meal they sauntered over to the library with Myranda, and Arya discovered some interesting volumes on mountain herbs and their medical use. Two hours later, Lord Nestor himself appeared and informed them that their aunt was willing to meet them now.

“At last,” Arya mouthed to Sansa, and though her sister didn't look at her a wry, knowing smile was playing around the corners of her mouth.


	26. Same morning, five minutes later, New Eaglestone, drawing room

Aunt Lysa probably did a lot – but she did NOT look like her dead sister Catelyn. True, she did have auburn hair, but the colour looked artificial; as if she wanted to conceal the first grey strands. Their aunt had bags under her watery blue eyes, which could not be explained be a sleepless, sorrow-stricken night alone. There were also lines around her mouth that reflected bitterness or disgust or scorn... or possibly a combination of all of these points. Lysa's sallow skin was rather flabby in general, and her cleavage was as huge as her waist was outsized. All in all not an appearance that was inspiring confidence, Arya concluded.

 

“Good morning, aunt,” Sansa had said on entering the room, polite as always, but Lysa had only looked back at her without saying a thing.

They weren't offered a chair either. How very “friendly”.

As soon as the door had closed, the Lady of New Eaglestone spoke up: “What do you think you're doing here? Don't you see I'm a burdened woman who has to take care of her afflicted only son? Surely it wouldn't have been necessary to disturb the peace that is of paramount importance for my dear Sweetrobin. And besides, I'm still mourning my dead husband, so that your presence here is an insolence.”

 

Hearing those words, Arya had a hard time not to smack some sense into the nasty person in front of her.

Luckily, Sansa knew better how to be diplomatic.

“Dear aunt, we took it upon ourselves to come here, because we thought that a short and concise conversation would be less of a strain for you than answering various letters. We thought that writing would be so much more tedious and time-consuming than a personal talk. Had we not been sent by the king and the prime minister himself the whole affair wouldn't be so important, but we're also intent on clearing up your late husband's death. I'm sure that once you know the exact details of his demise mourning him would become easier. Besides, Arya here at my side is a doctor. Perhaps, she could offer you some help with regard to young Lord Robert's health problems.”

 

In answer to this Lady Lysa snapped: “My son has been treated by Grand Maester Pycelle in the capital, and we've got a capable healer here as well. If I had thought it necessary to heed a woman's medical advice I'd have sent for you. And I could mourn Jon's death much better, if you didn't punt in the painful memory of him.”

 

Arya couldn't believe what she was hearing. That they were not welcome here had been clear from the moment they had arrived at the castle – but this insulting behaviour of someone who was supposed to be their kin...

Tersely, she cut in: “I've been assigned to be the king's personal doctor now, in spite of Pycelle.”

Lysa snorted.

“Not surprised here. It says a lot about King Robert that he's willing to employ a female doctor. Well, it might speed up the monarch's process of pre-mortem decay and lead to a sooner replacement of the sovereign, so I won't complain.”

 

Each word was like a whiplash for Arya. That her own aunt could say such horrible things hurt her more than she could possibly say.

Next to her, she could see Sansa stiffen in anger.

“Aunt Lysa,” her elder sister retorted, “let's just speak plainly about the investigations we've been tasked with, so that we may leave again as soon as possible. We've found some hints that Lord Jon may have been murdered. What do you say to that?”

 

Their aunt glared at them.

After a moment, she hissed: “It's interesting that you should say such a thing when Grand Maester Pycelle didn't notice anything.”

“Grand Maester Pycell didn't carry out the autopsy, which means he hardly had the insight into the case that I have,” Arya cut in.

Lady Lysa was truly scandalized now: “You did WHAT? And without my consent? You're a monster! And you even dare to appeal to our relationship!? You will leave this room at once!”

Now, it was Sansa who spoke up, and her voice was as icy as the deep of winter: “Arya carried out the autopsy on the king's specific orders. And she found clear indications that Lord Arryn was murdered with poison. Besides, we've heard that your marriage was of such a nature that you might not be mourning your dead husband half as intensively as you're trying to make us believe. What do you say to that?”

“What do you know about mourning a husband when all YOU did was to get divorced from yours as if you were a loose tavern wench? And even if my marriage with Lord Jon wasn't quite as happy as it could have been – do you want to imply I murdered my son's father? Robert is so ill, and losing his sire was such a blow for him and his delicate health. Do you think I could ever do such a thing to him? You're kinky to even consider such a possibility. And if my husband has really been murdered I'm sure the Lannisters are responsible for it. They've always begrudged my husband his friendship with the king, even more so, because the relationship between the king and the queen is so much worse than mine and Jon's has ever been. No, don't lay your accusations at my door when the Lannisters have profited from Jon's death so much, and when Lord Tywin has risen to the position of the Hand, which he would have never done otherwise. But ah, I remember – you're entangled with the Lion spawn yourself. Wasn't this crippled little fornicator of an Imp your husband? Are you bonding with that fair-haired scum of the earth again? And you, Arya – I've heard rumours of you being the old man's discarded mattress. Reviving your old connections to rise to the rank of the king's doctor? But be that as it may – don't tell me anything about carrying out neutral investigations. I can do without bad japes.”

 

Arya's face turned patchy from suppressed emotions now.

She gritted out between clenched teeth: “If Theon Greyjoy had not already been executed for what he did to our family I'd happily drop him here to let him complete his project.”

 

Lady Lysa rose to her feet from the armchair she had been sitting in.

“This is an open threat to my house. Only moments ago, you were talking of treating my poor child, but now, you've shown your true colours. You'd kill my Sweetrobin, if only you had the chance to do so. – Lord Nestor! Lord Nestor!”

The door of the room opened.

“My Lady?”

“These abominable subjects have just revealed that they're planning to harm House Arryn. Remove them from my presence and throw them out.”

“WHAT!?” Arya protested. “You're twisting our words in the way you want to understand them, aunt Lysa!”

“Never call me “aunt” again, you little wolf-bitch!” Lady Lysa screeched. “Lord Nestor!”

 

Not even ten minutes later, Arya and Sansa were pushed out of the castle's entrance gate. At least Myranda had been quick-reacting enough to hand them back their belongings from the guest rooms. However, they were not granted a carriage. Or a guide. They had to pick their way down the slippery mountain way on their own, and they were soaked by the rain mere moments later.

 

Sansa was scowling about herself so darkly that Lord Tywin would have become envious of her sombre aura, and Arya was swearing like a bargee. No, this had not been what you could have been expected from a family reunion. Not. At. All.


	27. Same day, about five hours later, aboard a dragon

Was she getting a cold after what had felt like ages in the rain? Her throat was already sore. Damn, as if she could use that! She and her sister needed to be healthy during their investigations.

Arya was still frustrated as hell and wished herself to be in a warm bed, snug against Gendry's warm, muscled body. Well, luckily it wouldn't be so long until she'd be able to meet him again.

 

To break the silence, Arya asked: “What do you make of this, Sansa?”

Her sister had been looking out of the window, lost in thought.

Now, she was turning around, weighed her head and mused aloud: “Things are fishy at New Eaglestone, if you ask me. I feel that aunt Lysa's provoking behaviour during our meeting was a planned strategy. People often attack in such a way to distract you from something you're not supposed to find out. Then again, our aunt seems to be mentally unstable. She may have tried to distract us from something that doesn't exist. At the same time, her objection that one Lannister or another could have had a finger in Jon Arryn's murder cannot be excluded yet. Lysa wasn't really shocked about our revelation that her deceased husband didn't die under natural circumstances. Well, it's imaginable that we only told her what she had already expected. Maybe, she doesn't want to hear about it, because she thinks that there won't be any justice with the Lannisters involved in the case.”

 

Arya furrowed her brow.

“That's complicated, sister. I don't like it.”

Sansa sighed: “I know. Things would be easier, if we had had a chance to meet this Petyr Moriarty. His disappearance was dubious enough. If he comes to the capital we must try to seek him out there.”

Arya agreed with her sister. And she realized she hoped the Lannisters weren't responsible for the murder. The fair-haired Lions were a disgusting lot, all in all, but some were worse than others. Somehow, she wished that Tywin was innocent of at least this deed. Even if they had split up and gone their own ways Arya did still have some memories of him she considered as good.

 

A bit later, they arrived back in the capital and booked a steam-driven carriage to the Tower of the Hand where they expected to find Lord Tywin. Soon, however, they found out that the man was at a meeting in Buckingham Keep, so they had to find themselves another coach. By then, Arya's throat hurt so much that Sansa would have to do all the talking.

 

Fog was starting to appear in the streets. That and the smelly coal evaporations from the many steam engines that were in use in the capital made things difficult to see. The rattle of the wheels on the cobblestones added to the eerie atmosphere. Luckily, they arrived at their destiny safe and sound: the side entrance of Buckingham Keep where the stables were. Sansa had told the coachman that she didn't want to have a big reception at the main entrance.

 

When they got out of their vehicle and paid the driver Sansa headed for the stables first, much to Arya's surprise.

“Look! Lord Tywin's carriage is here! That means we'll meet him here,” Sansa chirped with an air of contentment.

“Fine. Need some herbal tea,” Arya managed to utter in a brittle voice.

 

A moment later, there was another raspy voice, only much darker; it came from right behind her: “Aaaah, so the ladies are back from their trip. And a bit ailing, as I can see. Well. But let me tell you that the Prime Minister isn't the greatest worshipper of herbal tea in the realm. If you want to wait for it in his rooms you can sit on your pert little arse until it's flat.”

 

Arya started to bristle – but then she was cut short...

… by Sansa's overjoyed exclamation: “Sandor!”

San-WHAT!?

Whoosh, and her elder sister rushed past her with billowing skirts... and jumped at the huge, scarred coachman, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him full on his partly burned mouth.

Arya gaped and goggled...  
and Sansa (who had only eyes for Lord Lannister's minion) giggled.

“Never mind, Sandor,” Sansa chimed, “my sister has heard us together, so she knows anyway. We've talked about it – about us – during the dragon ride.”

The tall man shot her a brief glance and growled: “Judging by the way her eyeballs are nearly bursting from the sockets and by her sheepish gasping she doesn't have the faintest clue.”

 

And Sandor Clegane was correct in his assumption.

That disgusting ruffian... and Sansa? She had heard THEM at night!?

Fuck.

But how...? Why...?

 

Then, Arya understood... and it hit her like a steam locomotive. It had all been a huge misunderstanding. Of course, the coachman had been with Sansa and Tyrion in the Street of Silk – as a driver and a guardian. The Imp could only have stayed behind to pass the night in a brothel while Clegane had driven her sister home and then...

Gods. It had all gone awry.

Besides, during their conversation aboard the dragon they had only talked about things that were true for both men: being ugly, making nasty comments, having a difficult character...  
Uuuuuh... and the man's alleged whoring. No wonder Sansa had become so squeamish. Arya had talked about the wrong man. How embarrassing.

She wanted to ram her head into the next wall.

 

Sansa was confused now and asked: “But sister, we discussed...”

“We. Never. Used. Names. Greatest misunderstanding ever about the disfigured, bilious man in question. I believed us to be talking about Tyrion.”

Silence.

And then, Sandor Clegane threw back his head and guffawed in such a way that it sounded like a whole kennel full of wild, angry, barking dogs.


	28. Same day, fifteen minutes later, Buckingham Keep, the Hand's castle office

Arya was still completely dumbfounded when they were admitted to Lord Lannister's local solar. Likely, the cold, which was starting to block her head, played a big role in the slow grasping of her sister's situation. And now, coming face to face with Lord Tywin again wasn't the most glorious point on their to-do list, but duty was duty.

 

Sansa reported to the lion in general terms, mentioning the cold welcome at New Eaglestone and their aunt's rejection. Meanwhile, Arya sniffled and coughed from time to time and played with an aether-lit globe on a golden side table.

Suddenly, Lord Lannister reached into his pocket and tossed her a handkerchief. Arya eyed the embroidered lion on the piece of cloth and wrinkled her nose, but took the handkerchief anyway.

 

“Were there any clues that indicate that Lady Lysa is involved in the murder of her husband?” Lord Tywin wanted to know.

“Nothing obvious so far,” Sansa replied with a sigh, “but there may be puzzle pieces that will still fall into place. That will depend on the context of our future investigations.”

“For example?”

Sansa shrugged: “That will have to be assessed in the light of our future experiences. One mustn't come to any premature inferences.”

 

BANG!

Lord Tywin's hand hit the desk as if he wanted to crush the wood into pieces with his fist.

Arya and Sansa couldn't help wincing.

“Ladies – this is all taking too long. The king needs some quick results. And me as well. We're both no patient men.”

Sansa cocked her head and batted her eyelashes: “Perhaps you should find a simple scapegoat then, that would be the quickest solution. Finding the true culprit takes its time.”

 

Lord Tywin rose, turned away from them and clasped his hands on his back.

“If you don't make haste we might need a scapegoat indeed – and in contrast to me, I'm pretty sure you do care about the fate of an innocent person. This should serve as an incentive to speed up your investigations, shouldn't it?”

 

Once more, Arya could see how wisely she had chosen by giving up the old lion and by bonding with Gendry instead. Lord Lannister's ruthlessness was disgusting, she had to find out once more.

By the look of it, Sansa was just as repelled; her sister squared her shoulders and shot back: “It's your responsibility, not mine, if you resort to such means. I'll do as much as I can, and as fast as possible – no matter whether you put me under pressure or not. I've got my own rhythm for things. Good day, Lord Lannister.”

“I expect efficiency, which means a quick success. No more, no less. Good day, Lady Sansa. Lady Arya.”

 

When they had left the prime minister's office, Arya croaked angrily at her sister: “Maybe your scarred coachman is an insolent ruffian, but at least he isn't an autocratic turd.”

Sansa forgot her own frustration then, giggled and answered: “Coming from you, it's a late insight with reference to the Hand, my dear. But it's a precise conclusion. Well, let's return to Lord Lannister's mansion, indulge in his “outstanding hospitality” and make some new plans.”

Now, Arya could grin again as well, her feeling increasingly sick notwithstanding.

“All right, sister. Oh, and by the way – should I tell your ex-husband about...”

“Don't even think of it, or you'll have to endure a lot more of my violin exercises in the future.”

Arya chuckled, coughed, and together they made for the coaches.


	29. Same day, early evening, Lannister Mansion, small living-room

They had slouched onto two cosy green sofas with golden tassels and were enjoying herbal tea. A servant offered it in a Norvoshi porcelain pot and corresponding dainty chased teacups. In a corner, a gilded grandfather clock was ticking in a soothing rhythm. Besides, Arya had wrapped herself into a soft fleece. For once, she was grateful for the Lannister comfort.

Her head was pounding, her paranasal sinuses were clogged and her throat felt raw. Thus, it was no wonder that she left most of the talking and planning to her sister.

 

“Well, this blockhead of a Lion certainly knows how to jar on someone's nerves,” Sansa was just saying.

“Aaah, do I hear the ladies tattle about me?” Tyrion's voice suddenly called from the corridor.

 

The next moment, the short man waddled in, grinning.

Sansa smiled back.

“It would have been true for you, but, in fact, we were talking about your Lord Father,” she teased her ex-husband.

Tyrion hopped onto the sofa next to her, pressed his hand on his heart and retorted: “The insolent Lannister spawn, one as bad as the next. Oh my, I'm inconsolable now.”

He chuckled and went on: “Unfortunately, you're right: my sire IS a blockhead.”

 

Arya would have liked to laugh as well, but it didn't work, so she sniffled: “He'v put uf under preffure. We muft fimb ve culprib, and foon.”  
The Imp turned his head, looked at her and said: “Allow me to be frank with you. You don't look as if you'll contribute to the investigations for the next days.”  
“I can keep a grip ommyfelf. Dom'p you worry.”  
Tyrion coughed, but didn't comment on this.

Instead, he asked Sansa, who had finished her tea and who was about to light her weirwood pipe: “Have you made any new plans so far, my dear?”

“We were considering what we could do when you heard me. Perhaps, I should use the evening hours to return to the Street of Silk. I want to check on the general atmosphere; listening to the people is sometimes enlightening. Moreover, I want to see, if I can find this Petyr Moriarty, whom I didn't encounter in the Glen where he had been before. But Arya has to stay in bed tonight, that much is clear.”

Tyrion scratched his nose and didn't look at them directly.

“Uuh, I'm sorry, but tonight, I can't come with you. I've got an appointment, you see.”

Arya couldn't help but quib: “A whoring fpree wiv your crony Bromm?”

Sansa, however, came to her own conclusions, and her blue eyes widened: “You've got a rendezvous!”

 

At once, Tyrion flushed crimson, which made him look even stranger, and he slapped the armrest of the sofa.

“Damn your observation skills, Sansa! I mean... really... I'm sorry, I didn't want to tell you, because I thought I might hurt you.”

Arya couldn't quite understand the logic behind his words. After all, he was parading in and out of the local brothels all the time - so why should a rendezvous affect her sister any more than that (which it obviously didn't)?

Sansa giggled and gave Tyrion a peck on the brow.

“For a Lannister you've got surprisingly emphatic and sweet moments from time to time,” Sansa stated, causing the Imp to take on the facial complexion of a beetroot.

 

“Let me see,” Arya's sister went on and gazed at him. “Hmmm... judging by your reactions you have already been caught – line, hook and sinker. And your extraordinary embarrassment shows me that I know the woman. The point is that I don't know so many women in the capital any more. Hmmm... Cersei is your sister and out of the question, though this doesn't have necessarily to do with one another.”

Tyrion swallowed his own spit and choked until Sansa patted him on the back.

Not fazed by his reaction, she went on: “My sister is no option either, because she doesn't particularly like you and isn't into fornication.”

Now, it was Arya's turn to cough, and she snapped: “If Tyrion were the last man on earth I'd rather bed a snark or a grumkin from the far north!”

“Would they look so different from me?” the Imp japed back. As a consequence, Arya rewarded him with a smack.

Meanwhile, Sansa mused: “Now let's see – oho, I've got an idea. My dear, is it possible that it's this silver-haired Targaryen woman with her transport dragons?”

 

Tyrion's jaw dropped. Arya's as well.

Next, Tyrion made a dismissive gesture and mumbled: “Met her at Jaime's engagement party yesterday evening. Uuh, anyway. Back to your plans for the evening, Sansa. Since Arya is ill and I'm busy you'll have to stay at home, I fear. The Street of Silk is no place for a lone female wolf.”

In answer to that, Sansa threw back her head and laughed: “That's a good one, Tyrion. Please, I'm not the naïve little girl you once knew any more, and I've been in similar places alone in Oldtown more often than I can count. I'll put on my male clothes again and if you're worried about my safety I can take your coachman along as my personal guard. He'll be deterring for any potential attacker.”

 

It was good that Arya had this – otherwise disgusting – cold: it prevented her from uttering a meaningful catcall. In all silence, she decided to secure some earplugs for the night. Since her constipated nose would keep her awake for hours she didn't feel the need to be entertained with concupiscent sounds after midnight.


	30. Same day, one hour later, Lannister Mansion, Arya's bedroom

Angry that she had been doomed to stay at home, Arya had skimmed the Lions' private library for some interesting material. She thought she needed a light read before sleeping. The only problem was that someone like Tywin Lannister didn't have any copper-a-line ghost or horror stories. The only lighter material she found was “The Last of the Dothraki”, an old adventure story book that looked as if some curious boys had read it many times. However, this was not after Arya's taste. With a sigh and lots of coughing and sniffling she sent out a servant to get her something she liked. Even at this time of the day there were still some street vendors around, who sold little booklets and magazines.

 

Twenty minutes later, she held the servant's yield in her hands: a story named “The Dornish Pit of Vipers and the Pendulum”, written by E. A. Pea, a famous author of gothic literature. For a moment, Arya put the copy on the windowsill, because she wanted to wash herself and to dress for bed first. While she was doing so she accidentally peeped out of the window. The opening faced out to the yard where carriages and guests could enter from the street.

 

A strange movement down there caught her attraction. It looked as if there was a lone, tall, very erect visitor rolling into the court on a weird vehicle with two wheels.

Arya's curiosity ignited like a candle flame, and she watched on.

The person reached the halo of the big lamp at the entrance – and Arya's confusion grew. What kind of individual was that? It wore a broad, rather feminine hat, the ends of a brown leather mantle in a masculine cut were billowing in the wind, and further down, the person was wearing something that looked as if a tailor had not been able to decide whether he wanted to produce a pair of trousers or a skirt. It was by far the strangest sight Arya had seen in years.

And the vehicle itself... Arya strained her eyes. Why – this was a Steam-Aether Segway! Her heart started to beat faster. Segways had only been introduced two years before, but they were already becoming fashionable amongst the richer people. To own one meant you were up-to-date. Oh, how she longed to possess one herself! She needed to see this construction in detail at once.

 

Almost forgetting her cold and happy she hadn't fully undressed yet, Arya buttoned up her clothes again, and dashed out of the room and down the steps to the entrance. From outside, she heard the Kingslayer's voice and a... female one come closer.

Arya stopped, and it started to dawn on her who this visitor could be. A moment later, she found out she was right: Jaime stepped into the entrance hall with a giant of a woman. She looked every inch a suffragette with her clothing style. There was no doubt: this was Brienne of Tarth, the man's fiancée.

The Kingslayer noticed Arya, shot her a dark glance and asked grumpily: “What are you doing here, Mrs. Watson? My brother informed me you were ill and in bed – and you do look the part.”

 

“Pfft,” Arya made. “Are we being charming again? Look, I'm sorry to interrupt your tête-à-tête, I didn't recognise it from the window for what it was. I just saw the beautiful Segway and wanted to have a closer look at it. – And good evening, miss. Your vehicle looks fantastic from above.”

The other woman in the hall smiled at her, thus revealing a tooth space, thanked her, and asked Jaime: “Won't you introduce us?”

The Kingslayer surrendered with hanging shoulders.

Arya was fascinated by Lady Brienne, impressive as she was; and the sympathy turned out to be mutual.

 

Brienne took her out to the Segway again, and they talked about technical data while Arya was inspecting it from close up. It was a real masterpiece with regard to both design and usability. The thing looked as if it were perfect for giving chase to a criminal as well. Arya decided she had to tell Sansa about it on the morrow.

 

“Ladies, I'm terribly sorry to interrupt your conversation, but I've got a few things to discuss with Lady Brienne myself,” Jaime interrupted them.

In the lamplight, Arya could see Brienne screw her eyes heavenwards and had to camouflage a fit of laughter by coughing into her hand. Together, they entered the house again.

 

All of a sudden, Tyrion appeared in the entrance hall as well, as spick and span as the Imp could ever be.

“Lady Brienne, good evening, pleased to meet you,” he said. “Brother, I'm off now. Enjoy your evening with the plans for your wedding. And Arya, what a stroke of luck you're not abed yet. An automaton bird reached me right after Sansa's departure, so it was too late to inform her. Here, take the letter; you can read it as well. Tell Sansa about it as soon as she returns.”

Arya grabbed the piece of paper eagerly and promised the Imp to do so – though she was less than enthusiastic, because it meant she'd likely have to interrupt two lovebirds. She could only hope they'd already have enjoyed themselves in the carriage beforehand, so that Sansa's brain would be functioning.

 

Wishing the others a good night, she went upstairs again and started to read the letter Tyrion had given her.

 

_“Haafman, I can tell yu whos rifel that is that yu were asking abbaut. Belongd to one off aur menn, Daffyr, Sann of Goret. Was faund ded in the mauntns, hang by his neck, and withaut his rifel. Ther was a note stack on his back: “Waning. Feit of a poacha.- Heigh Stuard off the Glenn” Raight, that's it. Sennd me moniy and wepens for paiment. Timet, Sann of Timet.”_

 

After Arya had fought her way through the message she knew two things for sure. First: Lord Nestor's men had had a finger in the killing of the Mountain Man and had somehow provided Lord Gregor Clegane's murderer with the weapon. Second: the knowledge of orthography was still less then basic amongst the Mountain Clans.


	31. Night, Lannister Mansion, Arya's bedroom

Arya did her best to stay awake and to read her gothic novel in bed... but at some point, she realised that she was too ill and needed to sleep. So she walked over to Sansa's room and slipped the letter under the door slit. She came to like the idea even more when she realised that in this way, she wouldn't be confronted with Sandor Clegane's wrath directly; she was sure the man wouldn't be amused about the interruption of a sensual adventure.

 

With a content nod to herself she turned around...

… and nearly walked into Tywin Lannister.

“What are YOU doing here? This is the guest wing,” Arya snapped.

Lord Tywin cocked an eyebrow.

“I know my own house, no need to lecture me. And I think I'm allowed to prowl my property. I wanted to see how you're faring with your cold, but judging by your acid tongue you're still well enough. And the letter tells me you and your sister are still working on the case.”

“If we're working on it – it's despite you putting us under pressure, not because of it. And the last one I need to fuss over me is you, thanks.”

“I think you're the first one who deems me capable of “fussing” over someone. “Checking upon an investment,” is the term I would use. And now, I bid you good night.”

He tipped at the rim of his top hat and turned around.

 

Arya's only reaction was to snort at the Lord of Lannister. Unfortunately, it triggered off a fit of coughing. It was the signal for her to return to her room and to go to sleep. Once she had pulled the blanket over her head her mind drifted off more quickly than you could say “aether”.

 

She was woken again by wild rapping on her door, so she sat bolt upright on her mattress.

“Arya, let me in!” her sister was calling.

At once, she hopped out of bed and dashed to the door, though she felt dizzy and was suffering from a headache.

Sansa was still wearing her disguise – at least more or less, for she looked as dishevelled as Arya herself had often done as a child: short hair standing off in all directions and smudges of dirt tainting her skin. What was more worrying was the fact that her sister's facial expression didn't indicate that her rumpled stated originated in a passionate tumble with her lover in the Lannister carriage.

The said man was right standing behind Sansa and looked even worse: his clothes were torn, he had fresh bruises in his scarred face and a cut on his hand. Notwithstanding his wounds he was holding Sansa around her waist in a comforting, but also possessive gesture.

 

“What on earth...?” Arya gasped.

“We were attacked, but we're not really hurt, thanks to Sandor,” Sansa said. “You should have seen him! He saved me. But we need to talk.”

 

Arya's eyes became even wider.

“Oh! Yes, sure. And there's a letter for you in your room. A message from the Mountain Clans to Tyrion. Perhaps we should also include Lord Lannister in the meeting. As luck would have it he's at home.”

“I'll go and wake him up,” Sandor growled. “Meeting in the library in about ten minutes, I'd say. In the meantime, you should exchange your night gown – or rather Myrcella's, I guess – for something... less translucent. I'm more interested in seeing your sister's charms, and I'm pretty sure you don't want to remind the old Lion you've got boobs.”

“Mr. Clegane: you're disgusting!” Arya spat, but pivoted around nevertheless to make herself presentable.

Her head was pounding worse and worse. She started to fumble on her nightgown like mad. Dash it all!

And by the gods – what had befallen her sister?


	32. Night, Lannister Mansion, library

The gathering was indeed an assortment of serious faces. Arya's features were puffy from her cold, but her look was grave as well. Sansa had switched into new clothes and combed her hair while Sandor had a makeshift bandage around his hand and a raw steak on his eye (though it was clear he would have preferred to eat it after having it prepared in the kitchen). Lord Lannister had put on some house breeches and a chemise that was modest in comparison to his normal garb. The prime minister didn't have to say anything to trigger off the report; he simply looked from Sandor to Sansa. Arya noted that the secret lovers were keeping a safety distance.

 

“We were carrying out some investigations in the Street of Silk,” Sansa began.

“What!? You were in the red district? This is of utmost indecency for a woman, and even more so for one of your status and affiliation. Do you know what will happen, if you've been recognized? Do you have an idea which shame you could bring on the Lannister name?”

“Just to inform you, Lord Tywin: some of the pieces of information I've given you about this case go back to an earlier visit of the same place – with your son Tyrion. HE didn't object to this mode of action, and besides, I was well-disguised. Not even Arya recognised me at first.”

 

Lord Lannister grunted.

“Of course, Tyrion wouldn't decline your wish. He wouldn't know decency if it bit him in his a... nose. Apart from that – did your oh so perfect disguise include obscuring Sandor's all too easily identifiable appearance as well? He's infamous for being the Lannister Dog, and his looks have got a big part in the reputation.”

 

Sansa gazed at her former father-in-law.

“If we could finish the accusations and the justifications we'd be able to switch to what actually happened, what we can learn from it, and to what needs to be done in the future.”

Lord Tywin scowled at her, then clasped his hands on the back and started to walk up and down in front of the fireplace.

“Go ahead.”

 

Sansa cocked her head.

“We first entered a tavern. “The Jolly Jester.” Listened to the round of regulars. There was also someone sticking out from the crowd, far more than us, because he put himself into the centre of everyone's attention by giving a political speech. A bald, elderly man with a mighty brown-grey moustache whose ends would have reached his chest, had he not waxed them to point upwards. He was wearing an old top-hat. Lower working-class, not a pauper. He lectured his listeners about the new political concept, this “Electocracya”, and raised the crowd against King Robert. I tell you, the situation is getting precarious. You should have seen the other men and how they cheered and clapped, stamped their feet and urged on the speaker. If King Robert isn't careful, he'll have to face an upheaval, or even a revolution.”

 

Tywin snorted.

“If Tyrion doesn't recognize decency, Robert doesn't even know the concept of being either decent or careful to begin with. Keeping the rabble calm will be my job – and mine alone. Just tell me the speaker's name. And then continue with how you got beaten up.”

Sandor didn't react to Lord Tywin's surprisingly candid reaction about the king and said: “The man called himself Verius, but I'm convinced it's some sort of pseudonym. The beating... it happened after our second stop in the Street of Silk. After a hop into the “Peach Lady”...”

 

“You were INSIDE a brothel? With Lady Sansa?”

Lord Tywin's eyes bulged.

“Imprefting you mow vab ve “Peapf Laby” if a brofel, my lorb,” Arya commented, sniffling.

The Old Lion turned red in the face – from anger, though, and not from embarrassment (though Arya was ready to swear that deep down, where he didn't have to acknowledge it, there WAS a feeling of shame that was causing the man's fury).

“What do you want to imply, Maester Smart-alec? As the Prime Minister I get all sorts of reports, and especially from problematic places. Of course I'd know about the nature of this place. And now no more disturbances. We've got several murders to solve by now and likely to save the kingdom from yet another danger, so put your focus on the bigger scheme.”

 

“Let us get back to ME visiting the “Peach Lady” then,” Sansa said. “We were there, because the establishment belongs to Petyr Moriarty, Lady Arryn's... confidante, perhaps. We had paid his town house a visit before we went to the red district, but we were told that he was out in the city on a business errand. We deemed that even believable, though you never know. And since he owns various brothels it was the most natural plan to go to the Street of Silk.”

 

Tywin palmed his face.

“Ffff...! Go on.”

Sansa shrugged.

“I was dressed up as a man, and I headed for a screened alcove. Mister Clegane ordered us something to drink and went to ask the local madam, if Petyr Moriarty was available, indicating we had some business affairs with him.”

 

Arya giggled and coughed: “Let me guess: in the meantime, you got a female visit, Sansa.”

“Oh, that,” her sister said in an airy voice, “there was a whore, yes, but she was already very drunk and had taken some other substances as well. Her pupils were unnaturally wide and her earthy, burned smell made it evident she had smoked a dreamgrass pipe. No problem I couldn't have handled.”

Arya was wondering what “handling” a whore had comprised. At the same time, she was sure she didn't want to know.

 

Next, Sandor took over again: “The madam informed me that Petyr Moriarty wasn't there, but I could smell it was a lie. At the same time, I felt it wouldn't have been an intelligent idea to point out my doubts in such a kind of establishment. Every madam has got several tough fellows with weapons, and while I'm a good fighter I didn't want to make things any riskier than they already were with S... Lady Sansa around.”

 

“The only point is that you had already been far too risky, and when you and Lady Sansa left the establishment there were some of these “tough fellows” waiting for you in a side street. I should have expected better of you, Clegane. And Lady Sansa.”

 

Sandor looked contrite enough, but Sansa was unperturbed. She even waved her hand at Lord Tywin's harsh words.

“Sandor Clegane kept me safe and sound, as is his duty; and since I've left the Lannister family I've learned some tricks to defend myself.”

Sansa waved her hand again, and from one moment to the next, she was holding a little knife in her hand. It had emerged from her sleeve. The blade looked a dirty reddish hue.

 

Arya gulped. Even though she knew Sansa had had some private lessons in Oldtown she had not expected her sister to be ready to use a weapon. Neither had Arya realised Sansa's prestidigitation with a knife.

“Perhaps I shouldn't be surprised, given how deftly she's always been able to wield a needle. She's got nimble fingers,” Arya thought.

It was a comfort that Tywin looked at the knife in just as dumbfounded a way as she surely did herself.

 

Meanwhile, Sansa continued: “Besides, we have learned quite a bit. Petyr Moriarty doesn't want to meet us. Even wants us to... disappear from the scene. It means he has got something to hide. A dirty secret. Whether he has had a hand in the murders we're dealing with, or whether it has got something to do with his “business matters” is not clear, but it's worth to dig a bit deeper in this affair.”

 

Lord Tywin was still only half mollified.

“That knowledge may be interesting, but it came at too high a price. Anyway. I can imagine you want to see this Petyr Moriarty face to face. We can actually have that at a very low cost. I'll summon him to my solar and you have to hide somewhere. If the mountain will not come to the Father, the Father must go to the mountain. Well, I'm no adept of the Father, as Tyrion and my other children will be all too ready to agree, so Moriarty will still have to come to me, not the other way round. After all, it must be worth something that I'm the Prime Minister.”

Arya arched her eyebrows at those words, but at the same time she realised she was getting tired again and needed to go back to bed. Luckily, the meeting didn't last much longer.

 

Sandor departed for the stables and the adjoining building where he had his bedroom. Lord Tywin took it upon himself to see the women to their own chambers before heading towards his own quarters.

His last words at them were: “No. Fooleries.”

Sansa's simple answer was: “Not tonight.”

Arya thought of Sandor Clegane, but her compassion was more than limited. Her eyelids were drooping, the head was pounding, and if she didn't get some sleep now Arya would be the next attacker of the secret lovebirds.

She said to Sansa: “Late breakfast, if possible. And perhaps we can finally make a trip to that wax museum tomorrow. What do you say?”

Sansa yawned and answered: “I'll wake you with my fiddle.”


	33. Late Morning, Lannister Mansion, dining room

The message came via the air-tube system. Rich as Lord Tywin was – and as the political leader of the Tories – he had had a tube installed from Buckingham Keep to his mansion in the past so he could get important news from the royal household directly, or he could send messages as well.

 

Arya and Sansa were sitting at the table and enjoying a late breakfast when a servant handed them the paper. There was no sign of Tyrion, but Jaime was with them, deep in thought and serious for once. The fingers of his good hand were playing with a tiny medallion.

 

“Is that from Brienne?” Arya asked.

She was feeling a little better after having slept long, though she was still sniffling. Her throat was less sore, and the headache had lessened.

Jaime looked up and answered in a matter-of-fact tone: “Yes. We've finished our negotiations for the marriage-contract. And that paper? Is it from my father?”

 

Sansa nodded: “Yes, some instructions for us. By the look of it, he will expect us in his solar in the late afternoon.”

Just at that moment, the doorbell rang, and they all turned their heads.

The servant, who had left in the meantime, entered again and announced: “Miss Tarth. Will you receive her?”

Jaime sighed.

“Yes, for fuck's sake. Lead her in. She's invited to have her breakfast with us. After all, she'll be family soon.”

“Very well, sir.”

 

After a few seconds, Lady Brienne swept into the room. Sansa, who didn't know her personally yet, was duly impressed by her size and her peculiar outfit. Still, their greeting was friendly, and Brienne looked at Sansa's short haircut with obvious approval.

Considering Jaime things were... more complicated, Arya noticed at once.

With a mocking grin he asked: “Ah, wench, here yet again so soon? You can't get enough of me, can you?”

Brienne blew up her cheeks and said to Arya: “The gods are my witnesses that my father is blackmailing me to marry this insufferable man – otherwise, I'd stuff him into the next aether cannon and shoot him back to the Waleslands. In his arrogance, he's actually thinking I've come for him while I simply wanted to renew our acquaintance, Lady Arya, and to get to know your sister. What are you going to do today? I was thinking of inviting you somewhere.”

 

Jaime pouted and grumbled: “I love you, too.”

The comment caused Brienne to blush.

Sansa said: “I'm very grateful for your kindness, and I would appreciate a joint activity. However, we're investigating in a criminal case, and there is a lot to do.”

 

A thought crossed Arya's mind, and she pointed out: “Lord Tywin is expecting us in the late afternoon, so in fact, we could do something nice for once before we go back to work. I'm still not quite fit, as you know, and I could do with a pause. Apart from that – what were you planning anyway?”

Sansa inclined her head: “I need to go to the building authorities for research, but I guess I can postpone this for an hour or two. Arya, didn't you want to visit the wax museum? And Lady Brienne, would you be interested to go there with us?”

 

The tall woman was thrilled at once.

“Why... yes! Absolutely! I've always wanted to visit the museum. Splendid idea.”

Of course, Jaime had to cut in: “Wench, don't imagine you'll go there alone. You've got two chaperones and I won't leave the three of you alone. I don't want to know which murderous plans the little maester here would cook up for me in my absence, just to please you and to get another chance to look at your Segway.”

 

Brienne palmed her face, Sansa wrinkled her brow and Arya berated Jaime, but in the end, the quartet rolled into town in the Lannister carriage. Arya noticed Sansa looking at the little upper front window where the dark contour of Clegane's coat could be seen.

 

When they had arrived at the museum, the betrothed left the coach first, and Sansa murmured into Arya's ear: “For someone having an incestuous affair Ser Jaime is astonishingly smitten with his fiancée.”

Arya snorted with subdued laughter.

“He's WHAT? On my word, sister, they detest each other.”

Sansa pulled up her brows: “And on my word, sister: we'll make sure we visit the erotic section of the museum, and then we'll leave them alone. And when we meet again a bit later they'll both have faces like fire alarms.”

Arya shook her head.

“Sansa, Sansa, I'll never understand how you figure out all those things, but this time, you're wrong. I'd bet on it that they'll still loathe each other in the evening.”

Sansa smiled like a true lady... who had pulled a silken glove over a steel hand.

“Deal! If I win you'll have to buy the next strings for my violin.”

“And if I win you'll pay my next shocker story.”

Laughing, they followed the couple and entered the museum.


	34. About noon, King's Landing, wax museum

“It's not the real Tapestry of Shipbraker Bayeux, but a reasonable copy,” Sansa lectured them in the Hall of History. “Here you can see Aegon the Conqueror burn Harrenhal. Look at his dragon, Balerion the Black Dread. And here, we've got the people high and low running away. Oh, and they didn't forget the making of the Iron Throne. It's just a pity it's all just painted here and no embroidery like in the original.”

 

Arya couldn't prevent a yawn and rather gazed at the wax figure of Aegon standing in front of the alleged 'Tapestry of Shipbraker Bayeux'. The man featured all the traits one could expect of a hero of his age: tall size, a muscled body, firm jaws, a steely gaze, good looks – in a masculine way. It was interesting to see how the makers of the wax figure had been able to evoke an impression of liveliness.

 

“Oh, Lady Sansa, I think this will be even more interesting for you,” Lady Brienne called. She had already moved to the next exhibit. “This is someone from the north. 'Bran the Builder', it says.”

At once, Arya hopped over to the woman and said: “Ha, one can recognise him as a northerner at once. The dark hair, the sharp features.”

“Wondering if our coachman has got some northern ancestry then,” Jaime commented. “And speaking of your home – here's the next room. The 'Hall of Regions'. You can see people from all the regions of Westeros in their traditional clothing and with some typical accessories. You'll be impressed by the rags of the Mountain Clans and the fine clothes from Dorne.”

 

Sansa reached them and said: “These are important studies, just in case I'll need some special disguises for my investigations in the future.”

Jaime shot her a wry grin.

“Always thinking of your job, is that the way of it, dearest ex-goodsister?”

Sansa smiled back sweetly.

“You're right, dearest ex-goodbrother. What a remarkable sally on your part.”

Brienne coughed and Arya produced a loud sniffle.

 

Jaime took it all in good humour, chuckled and went on: “Then you should wait for the next but one room. That's the 'Hall of Essos'. They've got a Pentoshi trader there, surrounded by slaves, and Myrish weavers, for example.”

He shot Brienne a meaningful glance and went on: “The best, however, is a noblewoman from Mereen in her traditional garb.”

Jaime leaned closer, as if he wanted to murmur into his fiancées ear, but in fact, he was still perfectly understandable: “Their clothing always leaves a breast free.”

Brienne blushed and had a quick look at her non-existent cleavage. Jaime laughed.

“You're impolite towards your betrothed,” Arya chided, but the man with his artificial second hand couldn't be bothered.

 

On they walked, had a look at waxen Silent Sisters and a priest in red clothes in the 'Hall of Religion'. Next, they had a hearty laugh at artificial Tywin Lannister's smile in the 'Hall of Contemporary Celebrities'. Arya could barely get a grip on herself again, so ridiculous was the waxen expression. For once, she found it was good to forget her worries about the criminal case that had brought her and Sansa to the capital.

 

Yet, they were facing the more serious parts of the museum soon enough. First, they entered the section with the medical exhibits.

They stopped in front of a naked female torso and Arya said to her sister: “See, this is why I keep telling you you shouldn't wear corsets all the time. Look at the deformations of the body.”

Brienne nodded along and said: “Corsets have just been created to limit the radius of women and to reduce their activities – and thus their influence.”

Jaime let his eyes roam over the dress with the visible corset Sansa was wearing and said: “I must object – they've been created to highlight a woman's natural beauty.”

He looked at Brienne and added: “Besides, it's very stimulating for a man to open a corset loop by loop. So I have to insist on you wearing one on our wedding night.”

The tall woman developed the complexion of a beetroot.

 

“Ser Jaime, stop saying such private things about Brienne in front of us!” Arya huffed.

The fair-haired man tilted his head.

“Ah, but why? In their time as a wedded couple, Sansa and Tyrion didn't hold back about such details either.”

 

That was the very moment when Sansa became angry.

“You know all too well, that it was Tyrion who addressed details about our problems in front of you where I would have liked him to stay quiet, no matter how close the two of you are. It wasn't as if you were competent to talk about marriage conflicts.”

 

Ser Jaime, who had understood his mistake, held up both his good and his metal hand in an appeasing way.

“Peace, Lady Sansa. My tongue has been faster than my brain again, and it is known I'm an off-hand fool. No pun intended. And expert or no – if I could have helped the two of you I'd have tried my best.”

 

Brienne ended the dispute by cutting in: “Let's go to the last public section – the dungeon in the basement.”

As it turned out, the creep factor had been realised in a remarkable way: there were a torture chamber from the Dreadfort and a horror scene about the 'King of the Wall' to be found, blue-eyed Others included.

 

At one point, Sansa pointed at the wax figure of an allegedly slaughtered man and said: “Look at this, sister, the raw flesh where the head has been cut off doesn't look realistic at all.”

Arya inspected the detail and nodded.

“Whoever did this has never watched a beheading.”

Jaime shook his head and snorted.

Meanwhile, a shadow crossed Sansa's face, and Arya knew what she was thinking about: where they had learned what a headless carcass looked like. Uh-oh... this would likely mean lots of fiddling later on. Still, Arya could understand her better than she wanted to: she herself started to feel as if she had a lead ingot in her stomach.

 

“I need to distract us both,” she thought.

Aloud, she said: “All right, and now off to the erotic section!”

“Are you sure?” Jaime asked.

To everybody's surprise, it was Brienne who squared her shoulders and answered: “Yes. I want to know what lies ahead of me.”

“What...!? Wait! YOU!? I can't allow that!” Jaime exclaimed.

Brienne glared daggers at him.

“The last time I considered my status I wasn't married. Should I have missed an alteration? You won't tell me what to do and what not, Jaime.”

Arya clapped the taller woman on the back and said to her: “That's the spirit. Come.”

 

They had to pay an extra fee, and Jaime kept cursing under his breath all the time. Once they had reached the rooms in question Brienne's facial expressions were interesting to behold: they changed from pallid to bright red and back.

“Jaime, I'll not wear aether masks in our bedroom!” she uttered at one point.

Her fiancé palmed his face.

“No need to panic, wench. I don't have an interest in such equipment.”

 

They walked on and came to a bed where a wax woman had been bound in fetters, and her “lover” looked as if he wanted to crack a whip. Brienne's eyes radiated terror.

Arya felt the need to speak up to calm her down and did so indirectly by addressing Sansa: “Sister, I must criticize this part of the exhibition. It's all arranged from a masculine point of view. These are male wet dreams of omnipotence, nothing more.”

Sansa took up the cue and said: “You're right. Gods, my marriage with Tyrion was a catastrophe, but this here is neither realistic nor tasteful. You said that this man, Petyr Moriarty, had had this private show designed according to his own plans? Says a lot about his depraved inclinations, if you ask me. I'm off, to the ladies' to refresh myself. I need to sprinkle some cool water into my face after this display.”

“Good idea,” Arya said. “Lady Brienne, Ser Jaime, we'll have a snack for lunch at Heddle's Bistro just outside the museum. Saw it before coming in. You can join us there.”

And off the two sisters went, winking at each other in private.


	35. Early afternoon, King's Landing, Heddle's Bistro

Sansa looked at her silver pocket watch and smiled impishly.

“Half an hour – and they're not here yet. Dearest sister, I think I've won the bet.”

Arya cursed under her breath and tapped the teaspoon against her glass with hot, spiced milk. Why on earth did her sister have such a good nose for these things?

 

To change the topic, she said: “Yes, yeeees, your're right. But since we're alone now – what do you intend to do next? Anything considering our case?”

Sansa shrugged, nibbled on a piece of cheese pie and answered: “Sure. As I said earlier on: I need to go to the building authorities for research before we go and meet Lord Tywin.”

“What exactly do you want to find out?”

Sansa smiled.

“I want to get a floor plan of the royal palace. Hopefully one with all the secret passages. I've got to think like an assassin. How could I get into the palace without being seen? How could I smuggle in poison unseen? And how could a rifleman enter who could shoot a “duelist” who knew too much?”

 

Arya gaped at her sister.

“But such an encompassing floor plan of Buckingham Keep must be top secret! How can you believe the clerks will hand you such material?”

Sansa's smile grew into a chuckle. She grabbed her leather reticule, opened it and produced a piece of parchment.

There was more than a trace of sarcasm in her voice when she said: “I think this is the first time I'm grateful I've got a... special connection to House Lannister. Look, this is a general warrant from our very special snowflake known as the prime minister.”

 

At seeing the telltale signature and seal, Arya's mouth formed a little “o”.

“Now that's a generous gift if I've ever seen one,” she commented.

Arya looked closer.

“What a pity it's limited to twelve more days.”

Sansa's good mood vanished again.

She said: “It's Lord Tywin's way to show us a deadline for the solution of the case.”

On hearing these words, Arya wrinkled her nose.

“Yes, that's his style.”

 

She looked out of the window, but then, she caught sight of a unique scene in the street and was distracted... and couldn't help but grin.

“Sansa, look who's finally arriving. Bwaahaha, you won't believe it – Brienne is closing a button of Jaime's jacket.”

Sansa turned around and giggled, then leaned over to Arya and murmured: “They didn't go the full distance, but they must have had a LOT of fun.”

Arya whispered back: “Hehe, great, but I don't want to know the details about how you've found it out with just one look. I'll believe you anyway. - Pssht, here they're coming.”

 

And it was true.

Jaime strutted into their direction like the cock of the walk, knocked on the table and said: “Sorry for being late, ladies, but we needed to have another look at this marvellous tapestry you were talking about.”

Brienne looked as embarrassed as the golden-haired man looked smug.

“Yes, s-sorry for being late. Erm, do they have good food here? What can you recommend?”

 

Arya sniffled and answered: “Can't taste much with my cold.”

Sansa pointed at her dish then and said: “They've got various types of pies and desserts and cakes. Delicious.”

Without further ado, Jaime signalled a waiter to take his order.

“A beef pie with gravy. What, so small? Two of them then. Do you have beer? Yes, and fill the tankard to the rim. Oh, I see scrambled eggs over there, so one portion of those as well. Yes, a little cheese platter would be good, too.”

 

Arya and Sansa exchanged glances. When they left the bistro later, Arya murmured into her sister's ear: “Was post-orgasmic Tyrion so hungry as well?”

Sansa stiffened.

“Arya! That's none of your business!”

 

They reached their carriage, and Arya looked at the gloomy coachman.

“I wonder what HE's like after -”

“Will you shut your mouth!?”

 

Jaime, who had linked arms with Brienne and who was walking in front of them, turned around.

“Everything all right, ladies?”

Sansa schooled her features and gave the man a saccharine smile.

“Sure. Nothing I couldn't make my sister pay for in private.”

Jaime laughed and exclaimed: “Splendid! Well. Let's take Brienne back to Tarth Mansion if you don't mind. I'll go have a meeting with her father, and when we're gone you can have the coach for yourselves. I take it you've got to report to the Tower of the Hand?”

“At some point, yes,” Sansa replied vaguely.

 

Arya preferred to keep her mouth shut. On the one hand, her throat felt bad after all the whispering with her sister, and on the other hand, she was a bit piqued about Sansa's edgy reaction. Well, for the next fifteen minutes or so Jaime Lannister would still be with them – and no doubt he'd chatter enough for two people.


	36. Half an hour later, King's Landing, building authorities

Arya inspected the architecture of the complex in front of them when they finally left the carriage. There were various offices and enterprises in the street. The building in question was massive, with red brick work, high, vaulted windows and broad steps that led upwards to the main entrance on two sides. Below, on the level of the pavement, there was a fountain in the shape of a black metal dragon spewing water instead of fire. A plaque informed the passers-by that the fountain had been donated by King Jaehaerys I. Arya simply shook her head at the display of pompousness.

The two young women ascended the steps and entered. On the inside, the floor was made of green-and-black marble to contrast the white plaster on the walls and the lavish, gilded stuccowork just below the ceiling. They found themselves in a huge hall with open cabins and tables with dividers that were made of dark, carved wood. Huge crystal aether chandeliers illuminated the room. At the far end, there were three counters with an intricate green metal wattling between the employees and the customers.

That was the exact place where Sansa and Arya headed. Behind the counter they chose was a thin-lipped middle-aged woman in a dark brown woolen dress, who had put up her hair in a tight bun. A little name tag identified her as Miss Griple.

 

“Good afternoon,” the woman addressed them in a bored, high, nasal voice that could cause your toenails to curl upwards. “What can I do for you?”

Sansa greeted her back, opened her reticule, showed Miss Griple Lord Tywin's general warrant and emphasized: “Being connected to House Lannister by marriage, the prime minister himself has sent me here on a special errant. I need to do some research about Buckingham Keep, so I need an encompassing floor plan of the palace. The most encompassing one you have.”

 

On seeing the Old Lion's official seal, the woman's eyes bulged.

“Oh. Oh. I see.”

She nodded.

“I... yes. Of course. Please... erm. Please give me a moment.”

Sansa inclined her head. Off the woman scuttled like an overstrung screw mouse. Arya could see her speak with a portly elderly man, who had a reddish face with a big, bushy moustache, and whose fingers looked like sausages. There was no doubt he was the woman's superior – and a pedantic choleric suffering from high blood pressure, Arya surmised at once. Sure enough, the man knitted his eyebrows, looked at Sansa, recognised her telltale auburn hair and berated Miss Griple for letting the prime minister's (ex-) daughter-in-law wait. The woman pulled in her head like a turtle and dashed away.

 

“Bastard,” Sansa murmured.

“Mhm,” Arya agreed. “He's thinking himself more important than he is. Look at how he's twirling the ends of his moustache. As if he were a big fish. Stupid.”

Her sister added in an angry tone: “That's not the worst. The poor woman is dependent on the – rather meagre – income here, and her superior is taking advantage of the situation – and taking liberties with her, too. Bah. The lecher! How I hate people like him!”

Arya's eyes widened. Like so often, she had no clue as to how her sister had been able to deduce these details, but she didn't doubt her words.

 

Some minutes later, the pale employee was back, bosom heaving.

“Here's the floor plan you've been asking for. Please follow me to a separate room. The plan isn't meant to be read in public, as you can imagine.”

“Yes, sure, just lead the way,” Sansa said.

Together, they made for an extra reading booth. Miss Griple switched on an aether lamp and put the plan onto a big table with utmost care.

“Please wear your gloves while reading, my lady. The sweat of human hands isn't good for the paper; it's already quite old a document.”

Sansa nodded.

 

When the employee was about to leave Arya heard herself say: “Greenweed has got no taste, and it can loosen the worst constipation. The effect is noticeable after ten minutes and becomes urgent in an explosive way within seconds. The chairman of this institution wouldn't want to witness an employee's... “rate of combustion” in a meeting. Just in case your foreman suffers from constipation. And from being unbearable in his position.”

Arya grinned at the other woman in a meaningful way.

 

Miss Griple looked back wide-eyed, but after a long moment, there was a spark in her eyes that made her look alive for the first time since they had laid eyes upon her.

She coughed and said: “Thanks a lot for your piece of advice. Mr. Bartey's digestion might indeed need some assistance. I take it you've got a medical profession to notice his... problems at first sight? But be that as it may – it'll be ensured that Mr. Bartey's treatment will be timed with utmost care.”

Arya chuckled at that, Miss Griple showed a small smile and left them to their own devices.

 

Sansa arched an eyebrow and said: “Dearest sister, sometimes you're an ass.”

Her gentle scolding tried to hide a smile in her voice, but failed. Arya didn't feel the tiniest pang of a bad consciousness for repugnant Mr. Bartey. Smirking, she looked at the floor plan.

She said: “And your ass of a sister thinks she has just spotted a secret passage within the quarters of the Hand. Let's get back to our actual task.”


	37. One and a half an hours later, King's Landing, Lannister carriage

Arya was nibbling on the pad of her thumb, so thoughtful was she with regard to their findings back at the building authorities. Her sister was lost in her own thoughts and was looking out of the carriage.

After a while, Arya said: “This 'secret' passage is the only known one to the Hand's solar. And it links the solar and the Hand's bedroom. You always have to slip into another hidden corridor in the bedroom in case you want to go on. And that tunnel leads into the entrails of the castle. So if you want to be stealthy... I mean... our aunt had the best chances.”

 

Sansa sighed.

“I won't decide about this before I have gathered all the clues I can get. There's one thing that is still going round in my mind. Aunt Lysa is so focused on her son's delicate health that she wouldn't have the cunning or the energy to organise the poison that killed Lord Arryn. You've seen her yourself. Like a horse with blinkers. If she's guilty she must have had a culprit.”

“Lord Baelish?”

“We'll find out more in his meeting with Lord Tywin. At least that's what I hope. Are we still on time? The streets are packed with people and carriages at this time of the day.”

Arya snapped open a little tarnished silver pocket watch, which had once belonged to their father.

“Yes, I think we'll be punctual, but we better speed up on the way to Lord Tywin's solar. No rearranging your clothes or having a snack.”

Sansa nodded, though she pursed her lips and knitted her brows as if she wanted to speak up against Arya's words.

“Perhaps we can snatch a lemon cake somewhere later,” she said.

 

A short while later, they finally arrived at the Hand's Tower. The coach was left at the stables, and the young women darted towards Lord Lannister's solar. They were admitted at once.

Lord Tywin greeted them with a curt nod.

“Finally. You're almost late. Lady Arya, I hope your cold won't lead to any coughing or sniffing. In fact, both of you should control your breathing in your hiding place. Right now, you're panting like bulls after a race.”

Arya pouted and gasped: “I'll be all right in a moment. We hurried up to be punctual. Now show us where we should hide.”

Lord Tywin inclined his head a fraction to show his consent and strutted over to a big cabinet. The wood was of an exotic brownish red and adorned with the typical Lannister gold inlays. So opulent was it that it would have looked ridiculous in anyone else's presence but Lord Tywin's.

 

The Old Lion opened the doors and said: “You'll have to crouch a bit, but you can look through the keyholes.”

“All right,” Sansa answered, gathered her skirts, took off her little top hat, and ducked into the cabinet without further ado. “This should be all right for about half an hour,” she added once she was inside and had tested the position.

Arya followed suit and agreed. They'd be a bit cramped in the cabinet, but it would work for a while.

 

Outside, Lord Tywin said: “Don't be shocked should I offer this Petyr Moriarty a drink. I've got some bottles in another compartment.”

“How kind of you to inform us,” Arya answered and tried to sound mild.

A snort outside told her that Lord Lannister wasn't fooled by her meek voice. An instant later, the doors of the cabinet closed.

Not one moment too late. The young women could hear the squeaks of some bigger door hinges and stared through the key holes. A servant in typical Lannister garb entered.

“Lord Hand, there is a man in the antechamber who says he has been invited to meet you. His name is Petyr Moriarty.”

“Lead him in.”

Lord Tywin sounded as cold as ever. Arya thought that if anyone was made for the upcoming conversation it was the Old Lion. He wouldn't accidentally give them away, controlled as he was. Arya only hoped neither she nor her sister would make a mistake either. Blood was whooshing in her ears when she perceived a second man's steps.

 

“Lord Hand,” a voice said in a polite tone. Arya looked through the key hole and saw a short man in an opulent, plum coloured frock coat. In one hand, he was holding a silver-studded walking cane, a dark top hat and leather gloves. The man's tie had been bound in the most decadent way. Only...

Arya looked from Lord Tywin to his visitor and found the former one still more impressive. Especially the bushy sideburns in comparison to the latter one's goatee.

 

“Moriarty,” Lord Tywin said – without using any title. “Take a seat.”

“I'm delighted to have been invited to your place, Lord Hand,” Petyr Moriarty said and stroked his beard.

“May I offer you a drink?” the old Lion asked, and Arya knew he meant to loosen the other one's tongue in that way.

“That's very kind of you. A simple glass of water would serve me best. The streets are dusty today and make your throat dry.”

 

“This one knows how to play the game,” Arya though in her hiding place.

 

There was a sound of clanking glasses.

Lord Tywin spoke up: “As the king's new Hand I intend to talk to some successful businessmen from various sectors in the capital.”

Arya raised her eyebrows and thought: “When did the Old Lion learn that flattery is a suitable tactic to gain information? Never thought him capable of turning into a sweet-talker.”

 

Peter Moriarty's honeyed voice became audible again.

“So you have heard of my... particular line of work?”

“A Hand is supposed to know things.”

“Of course, of course, and it is a relief to hear you're taking your duties so seriously. I guess that an extremely busy man – and a widower at that – is exposed to all sorts of stress and might have use of some special methods to relax?”

 

Arya tensed, and through her peep-hole she noticed that Lord Tywin became a tad stiffer than he already was, too.

He said: “A thrusting man in your trade, I have gathered. No pun intended. You have good contacts amongst the nobility, haven't you?”

Moriarty nodded, grinned, and played with a golden monocle.

“Indeed. Naturally, I won't give you any names. And I assure you that you can count on the same discretion in your case.”

 

Tywin inclined his head.

Then, he said: “I appreciate your circumspection – and I should admit that the recommendation for your allegedly outstanding services came from the entourage of the last Hand.”

 

Now, it was Moriarty whose countenance looked less relaxed than before: his eyebrows knitted, and his smile became a forced one. He stroked his goatee.

“I think I must emphasise that my... employees never got the opportunity to wait on the former Hand. In spite of this, the quality of the service meets one's expenses – and all sorts of demands.”

“A man of my station and refined taste would expect no less, Moriarty. Do you also offer substances to enhance the experience?”

 

Inside the cabinet, Arya pressed a hand on her mouth to stifle a gasp... and to suppress a coughing fit. The strain of the latter brought tears to her eyes.

 

Meanwhile, Moriarty answered: “Ah. Now that's really special. Of course, I could offer you some fine spirituous beverages. Snuff and hand-made cigars from the Summer Isles are easily available, too. For any more exotic substances I'd have to contact a chemist of confidence since I'm no expert with regard to these particular aspects, and I don't want to run into any unnecessary trouble.”

He stroked his beard once more.

 

Lord Tywin nodded.

“I see. Mhm... I'll notify you about my wishes in detail in a few days. At the moment, I'm still too busy in my new job, as you've stated quite rightly. However, I can already see some light at the end of the tunnel. And now let's talk about your business in general. When I re-started my job as the Hand I heard a rumour that said the late Lord Arryn had planned a tax for your sector. I take it that such a financial tribute would be extraordinarily cumbersome for you?”

 

Moriarty made a point of shrugging off the question and answered: “I have risen to a position where a tax of that sort would not be much of a burden – but as a businessman I naturally have to say that such a nuisance would be unnecessary as the crown is already profiting from our sector in numerous ways.”

Tywin Lannister pressed his fingertips together.

“Of this kind of profit I am convinced. Well, I'll take your words into consideration with regard to my future policy. My first-hand experiences will serve to determine the details.”

Moriarty's smile was intense.

“You shall not find anything wanting, Lord Hand.”

“Good, good. And now pray excuse me. There's still a lot of work to do, and the sooner I've got certain tasks off my plate, the sooner I can turn to you again.”

“As you please, Lord Hand.”

 

The scraping of a wooden chair on marble tiles could be heard. And not one moment too soon. Arya's muscles were starting to cramp, and she was nearly choking from avoiding a cough.

 

Some two minutes later, the secret compartment door opened, thus indicating that Lord Lannister's guest had left, and Arya came out of the cabinet, gargling, coughing and beating her chest.

The Old Lion looked at her and emerging Sansa and commented: “Looks like it was high time to get rid of this man. And there's a lot we have to talk about now.”

 

In between more coughs, Arya asked: “You don't mean to draw on Moriarty's harlots, do you?”

It earned her a steely green-golden look.

“The last time I looked we weren't a relationship, even less married, so I don't owe you an answer.”

Sansa seemed to agree, because she said: “I'd rather focus on what I've seen and noticed. Let's recapitulate the man's visit.”

“That's the spirit, Lady Sansa,” Lord Tywin answered, and Arya decided to let the muckier aspects rest. At least for the time being.


	38. Five minutes later, office of the Hand

Arya was surprised about the Old Lion's hospitality: the man had actually ordered some raisin cookies and a pot of the finest black Asshai tea. Cream and lemon included. He even went as far as to sit down at his heavy, dark conference table with them, instead of staying behind his desk. That said a lot.

 

However, Arya wasn't truly fazed by Lord Tywin's behaviour, poured herself some tea, added some lemon and started to munch on the first cookie. The Hand just arched an eyebrow at her, then focused on Sansa, pressed his fingertips together so that they formed a tent, and cleared his throat.

  
“The man is no fool,” he began. “Didn't drink the wine I offered him to loosen his tongue. Do you think it's an indication he has been meddling with poison in the past and is paranoid now?”

 

Sansa licked her lips.

  
“To be honest, my lord, I wouldn't drink a glass of wine from you either, despite it's doubtlessly exquisite quality.”

  
Tywin snorted.

  
“No surprise there. If I'm not mistaken, you HAVE been experimenting with dangerous substances. And isn't there your inclination for sweetsl – “

  
Arya cut in: “My lord, do you want my sister's help – yes or no? If yes, I'd chose my words wisely.”

  
The king's hand inclined his head a fraction.

  
“I'll do that if she does the same.”

 

Sansa threw her hands into the air.

  
“This bickering doesn't lead anywhere. It's far more interesting to see, my lord, that a man who likely wishes you harm is trying to place a prostitute in your surroundings.”

 

The Old Lion stiffened.

  
“Harm me? How do you know that?”

  
Arya commented: “Why, that's easy: most people wish to harm you, what with your exuberant charms.”

  
“In fact, I've got more concise indications for my statement than that, sister,” Sansa stated.

  
“Can you get to the point?” Lord Tywin huffed.

 

Sansa nodded and started to explain.

  
“Dr. Moriarty had a piece torn from a newspaper in the pocket of his trousers. I could recognise the font, though it was smaller than usual; it was from the Sunspear.”

  
Tywin mused: “The tabloid paper that is most critical of the Crown and of House Lannister. However, I still don't see your point.”

 

Sansa chuckled.

  
“I could see a little more; the piece hasn't appeared. At least not yet. You see, I know all the issues, but I wasn't familiar with this bit. It showed a caricature. I saw a head with your characteristic sideburns and gallows.”

  
Tywin's stare became even more intense than before.

  
“I'll have the printing of the next issue checked,” he simply said.

  
“Hmhm,” Sansa murmured. “And what I found even more interesting about this drawing wasn't that he had it, but that he didn't inform you about it, though it undermines your authority. Ergo my belief he wants to harm you and intends to infiltrate your house with harlots so they can spy on you.”

 

“I have to warn Tyrion,” Lord Tywin said.

 

Arya thought of the Imp's interest in Daenaerys Targaryen and thought that Sansa's ex-husband wouldn't be overly interested in harlots for the time being; however, she felt no need to talk with the dwarf's sire about the blooming romance. Sansa shared her opinion, for she didn't bring up the topic either.

 

Instead, she said: “It was interesting to see how Professor Moriarty tensed and stroked his beard as soon as you hinted at a connection to House Arryn, Lord Tywin. This is even more revealing, because my aunt Lysa smells like him. They both use the same mint oil.”

  
Arya blinked.

  
“Do they!?”

  
Sansa nodded and answered: “Of course, you weren't able to smell the similarity, what with your cold.”

  
That elicited a frustrated growl from Arya.

 

Sansa, however, didn't stop at that, played with her monocle and went on: “What I found interesting as well was Professor Moriarty's allegedly insufficient competence with regard to drugs.”

 

“You don't believe him, do you?” Lord Tywin asked and crossed his arms over his chest.

  
“Oh, maybe he didn't lie about that particular point. What is far more fascinating is that he involuntarily admitted he's got a chemist he trusts to deal with this topic for him.”

 

“Har!” Arya exclaimed – and had a coughing fit.

  
Meanwhile, the Old Lion said: “Find out who that chemist is.”

  
Sansa smiled, but her blue eyes remained cold.

  
“How practical that Tyrion has got this new laboratory. A perfect pretext for our investigations. One last thing, Lord Hand. Moriarty rivals you when it comes to personal greed.”

  
Tywin arched an eyebrow, and Sansa went on: “He presents himself as a financially potent man and still suggests all sorts of deals to become even richer.”

  
Arya uttered some strangled noises, because she tried to stifle a paroxysm of laughter. Tywin, in his turn, pressed his jaws together.

 

Finally, he ground out: “That's it for today, ladies. You've got your agenda for how to proceed from here.”

  
Sansa nodded, drank the rest of her tea and grabbed a handful of cookies for the way.

  
“Speaking of greediness,” Lord Tywin spat.

  
Sansa batted her eyelashes, rearranged her little top hat and answered: “I've learned a thing or two from my connection – my former connection – to your house.”

  
Arya took it as a cue to snatch a last cookie, too, rose and made for the door. She grinned to herself and loved her sister for the ready wit she had developed over the years.


	39. Early evening, Lannister Mansion

They returned to their domicile. Sansa told Arya to stay at home to cure her cold once more – something that pissed Arya off. She wanted to be active like her sister.

 

And active Sansa was. At first, she stayed behind at the Lannister stables, and it took little guessing who she was staying with. Arya pulled up her nose and pushed away all the images that threatened to invade her mind.

  
Later, she could hear her sister play the fiddle and rummage in her things.

  
_“What is she cooking up?”_ Arya asked herself, but didn't want to intrude upon her sister.

 

At about eight o'clock, Arya went downstairs for dinner. The dining room smelled of a savoury broth – something she appreciated very much, what with her cold. She needed some hearty food.

 

Her heart swelled even more, when she learned an automaton bird had brought her a message. She sat down at the dinner table and read the piece of paper, not giving a fig that it was indecent for a lady to behave like this.

 

_“M'lady will be happy to have me back soon. One more day, and the morning after, my train will arrive at the station. Make sure to be there. And wear something we can put off quickly. Or perhaps this REVEALING dress again – but without the frilly smallclothes this time? Love you, Gendry.”_

 

“The obscene bastard!” Arya laughed – until she remembered that Sansa, Tyrion and Jaime were sitting with her at the table. She was spared the Old Lion's presence, granted, but that was cold comfort: the man's cubs were bad enough.

  
Her brows knitted and she breathed: “Fuck...”

  
Sure enough, the two fair-haired men taunted her throughout the meal – and post-orgasmic Sansa was content to simply watch on and grin like a loon.

 

After dinner, Arya escaped upstairs and decided to lay some patiences. She possessed a set of cards Gendry had given her for her last nameday. It was something she played when she was on stand duty – though she rarely found the time.

 

After the fourth round, there was a knock on Arya's door. She opened – and found herself face to face with a dirty, tousled beggar woman.

  
“What are you doing here?” Arya called.

  
It took her two heartbeats to recognise her elder sister.

  
“Sansa! You're able to surprise me again and again!” Arya laughed, and her sister smiled. “What are you up to tonight?”

  
Sansa answered: “I want to keep Petyr Moriarty's house under surveillance. To find out more about the design, the security personnel and the like. Now that Lord Lannister has piqued the man's interest – who knows if there are any interesting movements?”

  
Arya held up her finger.

  
“Why do I have a feeling you'll have a certain someone with you? Doesn't he have one black eye too many already? I'll be superfluous when I have recovered from my cold.”

 

Sansa put a hand on Arya's shoulder and pressed it gently.

  
“You could never be replaced. Never.”

  
A weight rolled off Arya's heart she had not known she had been feeling. She grinned.

  
“And nobody could replace you either. Make sure then that you don't get into a situation that might leave a gap tonight.”

  
“I'll try to heed your words, sister.”

  
Sansa winked, turned and walked down the corridor in her dirty rags.


	40. Early morning, Lannister Mansion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone said that Sansa is surprisingly positive for someone who has been traumatised like this; so I'm giving you a bit of a health back story here.

A knock on the door woke Arya in the morning. Her mind snapped into focus at once. Because of her profession, she was used to getting up like that. After all, you never knew which emergency lay ahead of you.  
So she dashed to the door with quick strides and pressed down the intricate handle. Sansa was in the corridor, her face contorted in frustration.  
“I wanted to let you know I'm all right. So is Sandor.”

Arya sighed.

Sansa spun around and strutted off to her room. Moments later, the violin started to hiss and to screech and to lament an the adjourning room.

 

Next, Sandor turned up and wanted to enter Sansa's chamber. Before he could knock, however, Arya grabbed him by the arm. She shook her head.

“If she sounds like horny cats on her violin, it absolutely doesn't mean she's in a similar mood herself. Quite the opposite.”

 

The Hound growled.

“Speaking of horny cats. All the lions of Lannister have gathered downstairs. Especially the ageing pride of the pack. I'll be called in a moment's time to drive the Prime Minister to the Tower of the Hand.”

 

Arya looked the scarred man in the eye.

“I'll tell her. Care to explain why she's so beside herself?”

Clegane snorted.

“That Moriarty bastard is a bloody clever one. His house was hustling and bustling with activity. About a dozen automaton birds coming and going in the course of the night. Sansa tried to catch one with a big magnet, but the fucker has got non-magnetic birds in operation.”

Arya raised her brows and whistled lowly.

Sandor nodded to support his point and went on: “At the same time, there were quite a few hired brutes on their posts. There was only one open cellar window where somebody could squeeze himself – or rather herself – in. Sansa and me would have been too tall. You might have just fit, but you were ill. So we could do next to nothing.”

 

Arya scratched her chin.

“If you ask me, an open cellar window stinks of a trap.”

Sandor shrugged.

“Could be right. If only it weren't so frustrating. One could see there's something foul afoot in Moriarty's house, but whether it has got anything to do with the case at hand... there was no clear proof of it.”

 

_Squeeeeeechhhhhhh._

Arya and Sandor winced at the violin sound.

“How long will it go on like this?” the Hound asked.

Arya rubbed her forehead.

“Hours maybe. In the past years, she'd go on like this for days – ask Tyrion. After our family's death, she also experimented with mixes of moon tea and sweetsleep, so depressed was she. Caused hallucinations, and she couldn't do without it. I'm glad the Imp obviously doesn't mention it in public. Her state improved when the two went through with their divorce and I, as her doctor, got a grip on her. Moving to Oldtown helped as well. Building herself a reputation as someone who can solve mysteries was the next step.”

 

Sandor's shoulders slumped.

“I'm worried about her.”

The same instant, there was a call from downstairs that sounded unmistakeably like Lord Tywin's voice: “Clegane!? Where's the Hound when he's got to do his duty?”

Arya said to the Lannister coachman: “I'll take care of her.” _Squeeeeeechhhhhhh._ “As best I can.”

From below, one could hear the prime minister's voice again: “Gods. It's that manic violin. Tyrion, should I ever criticise your divorce again, remind me of this accursed instrument. Should have burned it while I had the time.”

 

On hearing these words, Sandor Clegane stiffened. His mouth tightened until it twitched. He tipped the rim of his top hat and inclined his head. Next, he stomped off into the direction of where his employer was waiting for him.

 

_Squeeeeeechhhhesqueeeeeechhh._

_“Oh my. This will be a long, long morning,”_ Arya thought and returned to her room to make herself presentable for the day.


	41. Early morning, ten minutes later, Lannister Mansion, Arya's room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally back with an update. :-)

How had she ever been able to cope with that sort of anti-fiddling any longer in the past? Arya couldn't remember, for even a few minutes caused her nerves to get frayed.

  
_“All right. I won't stay in here. So... what can I do to busy myself?”_

 

A hearty breakfast and the newspapers were her first idea, so she quickly slid into her clothes and dashed downstairs. She was feeling a bit better, which helped a lot. Thankfully, Lord Tywin was gone... but Tyrion and Jaime were both still there. Drat.

 

Ser Jaime spoke up with a glance at the ceiling: “You know... I've got this knife in my metal arm. Did I tell you? I wonder what it could do to that accursed violin. Or to your sister.”

  
“You mean a knife like this one?” Arya said and produced one of her medical knives from her sleeve. This particular knife wasn't good enough for operations anymore, but it still had a use for everyday purposes.

The elder Lannister son stared at the piece of metal for a short moment, and his eyes widened a fraction. Then, he laughed.

  
“Ah, I guess I shouldn't be surprised. Not in your case. But please do me a favour – don't give the Lady Brienne any ideas about carrying weapons on herself.”

 

Arya resolved promptly to inform Lady Brienne of different sorts of knives, of where to hide them... and of how to use them.

  
Aloud, she said: “Your Lady Brienne won't need a knife, should she ever catch you in an... unfaithful situation. She'd simply rip off your private parts with her strong hands.”

 

Ser Jaime blanched for a split second at the mere idea, and Tyrion had a proper fit of laughter.

  
After a moment, the fair-haired man with the metal arm emphasised: “Pfft. My member should be quite safe then. And besides – even if there should ever be a misunderstanding of any sort, I'd still know how to defend myself, best believe that.”

 

Arya arched an eyebrow.

  
“You tell that to yourself. – Now, Tyrion, is that the Falcon Herald from the Vale you're reading?”

  
The Imp nodded.

  
“Quite so. They've got a big feature article on the aether locomotive that'll be put into service. That's why father wanted to have today's issue.”

 

Arya pricked up her ears.

  
“May I read it? My Gendry will be the locomotive driver on the first tour.”

 

Tyrion blinked.

  
“Is that so? How interesting. Our families keep intertwined, whether we like it or not. Father has invested a lot into that project, and he's so very proud of it.”

  
Arya nodded.

  
“I've heard of that. You know –”

 

At that moment, the doorbell rang. An instant later, a servant came in and announced Lady Brienne. Ser Jaime moaned and rubbed his forehead.

  
“The woman is becoming entirely too clinging. Ours is an arranged marriage, for fuck's sake.”

  
Arya shot back: “Since she can't be truly fond of someone like you she must have taken a liking to the Lannister breakfast.”

 

Tyrion slapped his thighs in malicious glee.

  
“Really, Lady Arya, you must keep living under our roof. Things are so much more inspiring in your presence.”

  
“Pah!” Ser Jaime uttered, but didn't get any further, because Lady Brienne was already sweeping into the room.

 

The tall woman shot her fiancée a dazzling, if somewhat sarcastic smile.

  
“Jaime! I couldn't be without you, so I simply had to come over. – Oh, Lady Arya, I was hoping to see you.”

  
Before Arya could say anything (and she would have loved to greet Lady Brienne... and to comment on the private way she was addressing her betrothed), Ser Jaime asked with a smirk: “And which part of me were you missing most?”

  
“Not your brains since you don't have any,” Brienne shot back. “I was just trying to be civil and not to make a dent into your misguided pride since I'm actually here to have a private word with the Ladies Sansa and Arya.”

 

Tyrion stifled any further sounds of levity, though he was close to bursting apart, and was obviously having the morning of his life. Arya smiled and wanted to say something while Ser Jaime was about to protest when...

  
_Squeeeeeechhhhhhh._

  
They all flinched.

  
“What was that?” Lady Brienne asked.

  
“My sister isn't in a good mood, I'm afraid. Would it be acceptable for you just to talk to me?”

  
“Why, yes, of course,” Lady Brienne said.

  
She walked over to her fiancée and gave him a quick kiss square on his mouth.

  
“Forgive me, beloved blockhead, but you'll have to wait.”

  
Next, she turned back to Arya.

  
“Where can we speak in private?”

 

“ _What_ did you call me?” Jaime sputtered.

  
Lady Brienne turned back to him.

  
“You're not deaf, are you? Though I should say I'm only sure about the second half of the pet name.”

 

Tyrion was nearly making water on himself, so entertained was he.

  
He also said: “Hahaha, this is better than any paid show. It does have its advantages after all to be a member of this oh so distinguished family. Now, ladies, you may use the golden salon for your talk. – And brother: be a true gentleman and behave. Don't throw them out.”

 

Ser Jaime glared daggers at his betrothed, then stood up, bowed and strutted out of the room. The door banged shut.

  
Lady Brienne blinked.

  
“He's not truly angry, is he?”

  
Tyrion patted her hand.

  
“He's just not used to getting his golden feathers ruffled like that, proud bastard that he is. Never mind, he'll be back to his normal self soon enough. He's too self-confident to begrudge you a verbal duel you have won. And now, ladies – off you go.”

 

Arya and Brienne agreed they needed some breakfast together, no matter what. So they took the time to load two plates with toast, butter, boiled eggs, beans and bacon and set off. Arya was excited to find out what the tall woman behind her was up to.


	42. Early morning, two or three minutes later, Lannister Mansion, golden salon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long time, I know. Sorry for that. But as you can see, I haven't given up on this project.

The two women sat down in two graceful, ornate Chippendale armchairs that reflected both Lannister taste and money.

“My dear Lady Brienne, I'm all ears,” Arya said.

 

The tall woman arranged her parted skirts and her military tail jacket.

“Ah, Lady Arya,” she said, “I've got some probably most helpful pieces of information for your case.”

 

Arya blinked, knitted her brows and leaned forward.

“How would that be possible?” she asked. “My sister and I haven't told you anything about the case we're working on.”

 

Lady Brienne uttered a sound that was a most unladylike mix of a snort and barking laughter.

“Ahahaha, do you think I'm a simpleton like the Lannister men around us? Really, you only have to read the political pages of the newspapers to know what you're up to. Let me summarise: Prime Minister Jon Arryn dies all of a sudden, Lord Tywin Lannister becomes his successor, and suddenly, Lady Sansa and you, Lady Arya, turn up in the capital. Lady Sansa, despite her problematic past with regard to the Lannister family. Lady Sansa, the one who's renowned for having become a competent private detective. Anyone with a brain only has to count one and one together.”

 

Arya looked at her shoes and blushed.

“I see. But please understand that I cannot talk about any details, no matter what.”

 

Brienne nodded and patted Arya's knee.

“No problem there. I wouldn't have spoken to you about this delicate matter, but I've chanced upon somebody who might help you.”

 

Arya looked up at the other woman, her eyes widening.

“Tell me more.”

Lady Brienne smiled.

“All right. You see... I'm a member of a women's club. We're all distinguished, self-confident ladies. We have gatherings, political discussions, scientific lectures from competent guests, and we're engaged in social work of all sorts. Some of us also try to help fallen women find their way back to a morally acceptable life. We help them find decent work and such. Now. Yesterday, I came across a woman who's worked for a man with a more than dubious reputation. The woman in question doesn't know anything about you and Lady Sansa, but she's heard of my affiliation with Ser Jaime Lannister. Before, she had picked up something she found relevant for the realm and wanted to tell me. At the same time, the woman is extremely afraid someone might make her pay for telling me the truth, so I didn't get much out of her. Only that her former employer was a certain man named Moriarty.”

 

Arya shot up from her seat, electrified.

“What!?” she called out, then noticed her improper behaviour. In front of a Lannister, she wouldn't have cared, but Lady Brienne deserved better.

“Forgive me, but I'm so surprised!” Arya said. “Lady Brienne, what you've uncovered might indeed prove important for our case. Please – may I leave you for a moment and tell my sister about this most interesting development?”

 

The tall woman smiled.

“By all means! Do tell your sister. In the meantime, I'll go and see if I can jangle the nerves of a nearby Lannister.”

 

Arya laughed.

“Sounds like a good plan. I guess I'll be back with my sister in a short while.”

And off Arya darted, out of the golden salon and up the stairs to where their guest rooms were situated.

 

The moment Arya wanted to hammer on her sister's door, the door opened, causing Arya to stumble and to fall into Sansa's arms.

“Careful!” Sansa scolded her mildly. “You should know your steps are unmistakeable on the stairs so I would know you're on your way to me.”

 

Arya snorted.

“You and your hyper-sensitive senses.”

Sansa held up a finger.

“Survival instincts that have been sharpened after you know what happened to our family. But let us speak of other things. With regard to our case: I think we should break into Aunt Lysa's city mansion. We've only thought of the Red Keep and of Moriarty's domicile, but actually, Aunt Lysa is less clever and less careful than Moriarty, for example. If we want to find any proof of her involvement in this case, we'd likely find it there. How stupid of me not to think of it any sooner.”

 

That caused Arya to laugh.

“I haven't thought of it either, so you're still cleverer than me. But it's a good idea. Less likely to run into a trap in her house. Or perhaps Skagos Yard could carry out an official search?”

 

Sansa shook her head.

“Addam Lestrade would want some heard-and-fast proof before he could do such a thing. Aunt Lysa is from the high nobility after all. You cannot charge her with murder without valid proof. Besides, she and Moriarty would be warned of how far our assumptions have gone if a horde of detectives came stomping through the mansion. No, we should opt for the private version.”

 

Arya, who loved a good adventure, laughed.

“When you were young and still an impeccable lady you'd have never suggested such an operation. You've come such a long way. And I don't want to lead you astray from your plan, but first, I want to tell you of something I've learned. Might be you want to go down that road first. Before we tread onto our aunt's toes again.”

 

Sansa lifted an eyebrow, and it was all the invitation for Arya she needed to go into further details about what she had learned from Lady Brienne.

As soon as she had ended, Sansa spoke: “Give me ten minutes to make myself presentable. I guess we'll be going into town this morning.”

 

 


	43. Late morning, Chancery Lane (off from Fishmonger's Square)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is heavy on world-building. I wanted to get to the Victorian-steampunkish setting again.

The backyard of a multi-storeyed industrial building was grey and sooty from the aether smoke that came out of the countless chimneys all around. A dead bush without leaves stood in a corner where two brick walls met, the cemented ground showed some cracks, with the scanty brown moss growing in it being the only plants around.

 

Arya knew the districts of the paupers and the factories that occupied those for little money who were still able to carry out the hard physical work. The hospital where she usually worked was situated in a similar area, and she felt a pang of guilty conscience, because he had not been there to help her patients for days. Worse than that – if the king went through with his plans, Arya wouldn't be returning to those who needed her far more.

 

Sansa was at her side, right next to Lady Brienne, who had brought them here. Sansa was in men's disguise, and taking in the scenery from under her deerstalker cap with an attentive, but emotionless air.

“ _When we were children, she would have reacted so differently to this sight,”_ Arya thought. _“She'd have cried and tried to get away from anything that might befoul her dress while trying to talk father into employing this man or that woman so as to help them out of their misery. And I'd have blindly raged about the unfairness of society and would have achieved nothing.”_

 

Though she didn't like to admit it, it had been her short relationship with Lord Lannister that had caused Arya to change in that particular respect. While she had never been able to accept the Old Lion's political attitudes she had learned to look at the big picture so as to be able to think on what she could do and how she could achieve something.

 

Arya shuddered.

“ _But it was good I left him. His greediness is like a festering wound. How different my Gendry is! Oh, I can't wait for tomorrow to see him again!”_

A warm – and salacious – smile crept onto her face.

 

At that moment, a door in one of the brick walls opened, and a remarkably elegant lady with long features Arya recognised came out.

“Lady Dacey!” Arya exclaimed with a smile, thus addressing the heir of Lady Mormont from the North.

 

The woman's eyes lit up.

“Why, Lady Arya! What a surprise! Good to see you! Hello Lady Brienne. And you are...?” Lady Dacey addressed Sansa.

Arya's sister smiled under a false moustache, and bowed for a kiss on the hand.

“Mr. Wystham, a social worker from Oldtown, at your service, my lady,” she said in a false and much darker voice than usual.

 

Lady Dacey smiled at the seemingly perfect gentleman before her, and Arya nearly peed herself in sudden mirth. Really, her sister was too droll when she pulled off one of her mimicries! Hopefully, Lady Brienne didn't spoil it all. But by the look of it, Ser Jaime's bulky betrothed indulged the little show.

 

“I take it you're interested in our most remarkable little project here?” Lady Dacey said to Sansa.

“Indeed,” Sansa said. “I've heard it's about the betterment of fallen women?”

“That's true,” Lady Dacey said. “The women learn how to sew and to do some housework, and they're also taught their numbers and letters. In the end, we try to find a decent position as a maid or as a worker in some sort of business. I should say that we're extremely successful here. Only one third drops out to return to their former lives as loose women, which is far below the average.”

“Impressive!” Sansa agreed. “May we look at the interior of our premises? And talk to some women, too?”

Lady Dacey nodded avidly.

“Sure! Come in!”

 

Without further ado, the little group advanced the door and entered the building. Inside, there were a hall and several rooms. The big hall right behind the door was lined with tables where about twenty women or some more sat, wearing moderate clothes and sewing blankets.

“This is the production hall,” Lady Dacey explained. “We sell the blankets, and the women get the money so that they get a feeling they can earn money in a proper way right from the beginning. Over there, we've got a storage room, the door next to it is a kitchen, then we've got a washing room with a big tub, and finally, there's the classroom.”

 

They inspected the institution, and both Arya and Sansa were impressed.

“The equipment is superb, and the concept without fault,” Arya said. “May I ask how you get financed?”

Lady Dacey beamed.

“A part of the membership fee of the women's club goes into this project, but we've also got some donations and a corporate integration with the brothers from the Quiet Isle. I don't know if you've heard of them. Under the lead of a certain Elder Brother. Remarkable people, even if I don't share their Faith.”

 

They talked a little more while they approached the tables with the sewing women. Lady Brienne walked up to one of them. It was a woman of about twenty years of age, though paupers often looked much older than they actually were. The woman was exceptionally beautiful, unremarkable garb notwithstanding.

“ _This one is not a harlot who has worked in the streets. No wonder a bastard like Moriarty – or one of his madams – wanted her,”_ Arya thought.

 

“Hello Susie, here I am again, and I've brought along some friends,” Lady Brienne greeted the soon-to-be seamstress, and Arya knew at once that it was the woman's real name, not her harlot's pseudonym.

 

“Hallo ma'm,” Susie answered with a guarded smile, rose from her workplace and curtsied.

Lady Brienne said: “You remember the things we talked about yesterday, don't you? Now. These people here are most interested in your situation and would like to learn some more. Would you be willing to talk to us in private?”

 

The former harlot looked at them, from one face to the other – and then, she stared at Sansa, and Arya knew that a prostitute could tell a man from a woman.

“Nah,” Susie said.

Damn.

 

Sansa sighed in her dark voice, even though the charade was pointless by now – if you didn't count Lady Dacey.

Then, Sansa said: “The man with the red shoes, the one with the black sideburns and the long nose... he's interested in you. Very interested, actually. Like a mooncalf.”

 

Lady Brienne and Lady Dacey looked confused. Susie's eyes bulged.

“He's...? But how d'you know?”

Sansa smiled and placed a finger onto her lips.

“I've got my secrets – and I handle them with care.”

Sansa gazed at Suzie in a meaningful way. The former harlot fidgeted and looked at her fingers, which were playing with the laces at the forefront of her simple dress.

 

After a moment, she looked up again, a steely glint in her eyes, and she squared her shoulders.

“A'right then. Goin' to tell ya what I know. But not here.”

Arya turned to Lady Dacey, who had knitted her brows.

“May we have a private talk in the classroom? Mr. Wystham –” The Harlot interrupted Aryawith a snort. “ – and I are most interested to get a detailed account of one of your... your apprentices.”

 

Lady Dacey glanced at them darkly, but Lady Brienne was already saying: “Sure, that's no problem if Susie has agreed. Off you go. Lady Dacey and I will supervise the other ladies here in the meantime.”

Before the Mormont woman could intervene, Sansa thanked Lady Brienne. Arya, Sansa and Susie walked off towards the classroom.

“ _Here we go,”_ Arya thought. _“Now, things will get interesting.”_

 


End file.
